There is an angel on my doorstep;Bare feet in newly fallen snow;
Eyes, grey like storm clouds, dark rimmed with sleeplessness.
Hands warm despite their paleness,
Holding my heart,
And I can hear the sounds of violins.
My daily visitor,
Brief but regular,
Until I could not imagine each morning without her.
There is a comfort in sameness, even if it is imagined.
Celestial beings can touch the souls of mortals,
But they must pay the highest price.
As if the love of humankind was too much.
I did not mean to drive her away.
If she only knew the emptiness,
Without the burning of her fingertips.
I am aged.
This is the last of my mornings.
The angel's empty footprints are on my doorstep,
Perfect in the mound of white.
The human heart beats warmer one final time.
The violins start to play.