Why the Angels Sing, a Poem

I know why the angels sing.

When lies and truths do

fail to ring in ears and

hands that navigate

left and right from every myth,

I know the hour the bell will ring.

It is not a promise or circumspect,

nor someone’s truth or regret.

It is the hour when you choose to speak,

and find the lion in a den of frost.

You must choose to walk

even if you wish to leave.

I wonder about the day and hour,

but it’s not my time to go and cower.

But these aren’t the steps others wish to take.

This is not a path one can navigate

unless they walk where I do

with the ugliest pair of shoes.

But I know why the angels sing.

Our girl flies with golden wings,

and I pray when the hour comes

to cast off the years engraved

by tornados, cancer, and her loss.