Daydream
July 28 2025
by Mark Kikot
Why can’t I shake the thought of angels loose
From where they lodge at night inside my head?
To drop on wings of snow, like down of goose
That God is plucking for his featherbed,
As great grandmother would, while stitching, say,
Bewitching me with bright and knowing eyes,
As I stared out into the light of day
Upon a world pristine, profound, and wise.
We don’t believe in angels anymore,
Unless they visit us through mediums
Of music, paint, or poem’s metaphor,
To soothe the stress of life’s deliriums.
Where is the man to wrestle them to earth
Like some clear dream he dreamt before his birth?
March 11, 2020