Heaven, emptied even of common angels
and the chance of their wings' covering us,
their leaning and listening, turned to stone
and was rolled away from our windy Earth.
For what was it without the splendid wings
of the heralds who terribly hailed and named us,
wings coasting the dark passage
that throbbed responsive to their bright passing?
What was it without the attentive clemency
of the unfolding rose of heaven who smiled
more mild and warm, soft petals
hovering over us, hidden from us?
Turned stone, heaven stood, an absurd vault,
an unintelligent tomb the Earth whirled outside of
sloping surely around the closed walls
as it swung on its unambiguous course.
Then the Earth sighed in every cavern,
drafts gathered in all the hollows,
the bulging oceans began to exhale,
breath shook across the faulted world,
the trillion leaves listened, sunbeams
swam nearer, mist waited quietly,
buds opened-roses of Earth-expectant,
even the silent snow yearned closer.
desiring us, answering our outreaching.
For we live in a new world, investing things
as we touch them. We are open to them now,
as the angels were to us, sanctifying.
Therefore let heaven be cenotaph
for angels gone from the terrifying spaces
between stars. Earth has been given us again,
far dearer than before, to our own shaping love.