Emily Black | poetry | Where Angels Dwell & The Early Violets

Where Angels Dwell


Poinsettias shine like crimson stars 
that lighten darkened corners of our 
home. My husband is poaching pears 
in red wine with cinnamon sticks and 
sweet prunes. A heavenly aroma of 
comfort and anticipation permeates 
the house. 
 
A purple-blue sky tossed with bright,
white, low-lying clouds promises snow, 
but it is too warm for that. Each day with 
its surprises unfolds like a tableau we’ve
never seen before. We frolic, like children 
in a Christmas story, through these holidays 
as we rejoice in leisure and enjoyment.
 
Come to me memories of my childhood, 
memories like when I ran gleefully to board a bus 
that would carry us school kids to winter holidays, 
to joy, family, food and gifts. Bring back smells 
of spruce boughs, cakes in the oven, the touch 
of a friend’s hand, her smile like a lantern that lights
darkness. Wrap me in magic, stay with me always.

The Early Violets

          on the forest floor in loamy earth
and tender grass that smelled of liquid 
green and smoldering leaves returning 
to their earthly mother,

an earth worm wiggled through forest
soil like a plow to break solid, compact 
ground into aerated fragments, softened 
like a welcoming blanket, a bed 

to recline on and link our bodies close 
together, lost in heaven’s violet haze. 
We slept and dreamed, and waking, 
wondered if this was real.

Would we remember this blissful 
paradise? We needed a talisman 
to remind us of this day, lest we 
should forget. 

There on thick emerald-green moss 
beneath a towering oak, perched like a 
jewel enthroned on verdant velvet sat 
a snail’s shell in its spiraled beauty, 

with brown and cream funnel-like stripes 
winding to eternity, empty of the creature 
who had created it, but whose soul remained 
to fill it with mystery and awe. 

We held this gem-like shell in our hands, 
felt its silky pearl-like surface and closed 
our eyes to better trace the pattern 
of its elegance.