Yard Angel

She talks to the angel in the yard,

The one her mother bought at the garden shop.

Long conversations in the dark
Or after school, subjects of weight
          Heavy to hold.

The wind smoothed the chisel marks

From the angel’s face and arms
Which after time took the softness,
Almost, of her mother’s skin,
Or what she imagined skin would be—

Cool in the shade, warm by day.

Ice and rain erased the contours
Until the angel’s face went blank,
Back to bare stone

As if she had never been

A guardian, keeper of secrets,
Comfort in sleep
          Under sheltering wings.

                                                                       May 1, 2012