The Day Of Living Angels Poem by Romella Kitchens

The Day For Living Angels

It was sunlit that day and, we headed by car up to
Ohio Pyle in Pennsylvania.
The water pulls you into it, has a sweet magic.
We talked all of the way and played classical music.

At the toll booth we saw male and female drivers
with faces that shined forth into the sunlight.

We saw the kind eyes of horses on gentlemen farms who
had never been burdened with the cruelty of agrarian life
for profit.

Women with skin like petals walked with the newest humans,
children along leafed paths golden, russet, winding with
natural passion, each verbal description of glorious root,
amber sap or winged enigma a passing on of a cleanliness
of soul, an engendering maternally that life would have
goodness to it if sought out and indicated.

We stopped at the Pyles where the water spilled beyond
self-control and non-repentant over the dams.
Our silence was like prayers there.

Older men who adored the waters watched the rushing, their
faces as kind as Nepal lamas, the sun's rays reflecting glows.
The water made sounds like a liquid choir.
We took those sounds home with us before the crickets and
cicadas ruled.
We took all things good home with us.