A single, cold blossom

tumbles, fledged

from the sky’s white branch.

And the angels

look on,

observing what falls:

all of it falls . . .

The afternoon

lengthens, steepens,

flares out—

no matter for them.

It is assenting

that makes them angels,

neither increased

nor decreased

by the clamorous heart:

their only work

to shine back,

however the passing brightness

hurts their eyes.