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The first angel Ian drew
was silent as the sun
on empty fields of snow.
Nothing was fast or slow,
the world not yet begun.

The second angel Ian drew
sang green out of the ground.
Birds of the air, rejoice.
Let fire find its voice,
each river its own sound.

The third angel Ian drew
wore vestments pale as sand.
A message printed there
would let earth speak to air.
But from whose hand?

The fourth angel Ian drew
packed darkness in its wings
for planets, bright or dim,
for moons riding the rim
of day. For unborn things.

The fifth angel Ian drew
turned into a door.
It opened into space.
I never saw its face,
only the light it wore.



This poem was selected for The Best Spiritual Writing 2009.

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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