Perhaps the angels tell the story
as we would tell a fairy tale.
Perhaps they whisper it into the hush
between the stars—
the adventure that is the great Reality
behind these dreams of ours—

(the crystal kingdom shattered by
an oil-tongued invader
the prophecy murmured over the cradle
of our broken race
the warrior-in-disguise
facing down the darkness
all for love)

Perhaps the angels gather
behind the fragile skin of the sky
to watch as the breath of the Maker
blows the pages of history
toward the fire and thunder of
The End.

Meanwhile, I—
daughter of Eve,
clay-wrapped, heaven-sealed soul,
bewildered child—
I walk gray pavement
on a frost-crackled afternoon
and wish to be something

claudiaClaudia Lehman lives in Lebanon city with lots of books, tea, and her favorite man ever. She loves exploring the world of words, teaching children, and feels most at home in the woods.

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