Picture sky, its timeless entirety:  north, south, east, west,
directions encompassing life beneath it, existence through it,
eternal bird species know best, returning flock after flock,
if not driven to extinction, the air, everywhere, ground of hunt.

This horizon, for now, does not seem to have that, bluing more pearlescent
with less coal smoke & oily carbon exhaust poking ozone holes
for blazing rays in separate glory, shaft by shaft.
Behind that the perfectly burning circular sun grants photosynthesis
or fires wild as if humanity has nothing to do with this present
as early on stoves were for wood & the heaping of peat,
the past air so pure lungs sung with oxygen glistening
from valleys and glades, deserts and alps.

Imagine this kitchen window here having such painterly sheen,
all interior surfaces dust-mote gleaming to the richness of shadows
while in close-up particular hands on a bread board pound & shape dough.
Oh lover, husband, bread baker, you man of the flour and water
golden light sifts the miniature clouds of like snow in a winter globe
though warmth of bone & flesh in rhythm heats the scene like nothing else.

Outside a small dog barks, guarding the green postage stamp yard
from the mischief of squirrels, chipmunks & the occasional great crow.
Caw caw one calls as sparrows scatter chattering for their larger
raven black autumnal descent in corn & in wheat bronzed
with tones of the Renaissance.

Why be surprised should a host of angels show up now, their wingtips
in symmetry, their voices a chorus of bells?  They are the bandwidth of Rapture
dissolving clothes like sin with cymbals and lutes.  They are not the fife
& the cannon, the fiddle exchanged for the drum.  They are all of such goodness
the spirit cries out to as if craving endless sleep without chemicals,
that pharmaceutical mercy chiming its coinage like all industry capitalized
by someone’s health for another’s wealth.

– Stephen Mead