The older I get, the more
I notice each step I take
is a step in paradise, grass
lit up in low angle sun,
buds plumping toward spring.
I wish I were an angel,
tall on the edge of paradise,
not with a flaming sword
or any other weapon,
but with bare open hands
pushing back the fists
of voracious bullies wanting
to intimidate, cavort, destroy
with bloodlust, greed,
and sundry cold supremacies.
For years my friends,
professors, writers, fellow
wanderers on gentle mountain
trails, continue to explain:
They want more power.
My impatient question
after fifty years of listening
remains: power for what?
We already live on holy ground.
I wish I were an angel.
