“free verse poem about a tiny glass angel”

Upon the windowsill she perches—  
a wisp of memory cast in clarity,  
gentle as a sigh.  
Her wings, impossibly thin—  
sunlight presses through them  
like an unspoken secret—  
aching to fly,  
content to shimmer.

She holds neither trumpet  
nor sword, only the delicate  
burden of being seen,  
fragile in her gleaming hush.  
A thumbprint, near-invisible,  
presses meaning on her gown:  
proof that she has been cradled,  
lifted to the level of eyes  
that search for mercy  
or hope on gray afternoons.

At dusk, when the sky cools  
to indigo velvet,  
she tilts her head  
toward the long sweep  
of the world—  
forever listening,  
capturing the rose gold hush  
of another quiet day,  
tiny,  
silent,  
blessed by the light that spills  
around her glass halo  
and holds her, whole.

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