All of them are angels;

And as I hang them on my tree,

I sing to the little wings dancing

On top of a river road mountain.

Yearly praise succumbed

To the small yellow daisies

Attached to a stream of

Everlasting sight, not

Seen in transient form,

The form of an angel,

Flowing in flowers

Over to my velvet hope.

So in the flowing angels,

Bobbing up and down,

I will fall from the sky,

With a burden as my wings,

And fall flat onto a splat

Mattress made with the

Whiteness of a newborn,

Yet the narrows of a blessing.