December

I imagined angels
more than once
in moments
same as snow,
slow and sifted,
drifting downward
to this weary earth.

They were there in
black ends of branches
circling
the eye's last
glimpse of night,
singing an endless,
silent reach
with outstretched hands,
and trumpets
stilled and raised.

Sheep and shepherds all
were dizzied beneath
the same stars,
a flurry of dark wings
unfurling suddenly among
December's trees,
where all who'd been hard-taught
to wait were afraid,
but awake
in the expectant night,
listening.