The angels laugh

I hear the host of heaven in the hum of 
the air conditioning unit,
blades whirring,
like feathers in a tornado.

I imagine the angels spiraling,
their voices raised in adoration or
dismay as the creations move
with free will below them, choosing,
ever choosing, those actions most
defiant - even with the best intentions.

I feel the brush of feathers as I 
rein in my fears, giving them up to a faith 
that is not given to an abstract,
but to the concrete daily puzzle pieces of life - 
faith that I know will reveal itself or not 
and yet will still run like clockwork, 
moment to moment.

And when I focus too much on the inner gears
and workings, trying to fathom the pattern of things,
sometimes, I think I hear
the angels laugh.

Photo by Silvija Wine on

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