Harvey S. Mozolak
spring cleaning in late March
in the warming attic among tangled lights
and the broken shards of ornamentation
fallen from a forgotten box
I saw
the wing of an angel
worn by a small child in the play
that in December became the warmth
allowing time to await
the announcement of spring
and the single once
return of God
to living room and tree
in the hot noon days
of April’s merciful migration
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