PREPARING FOR ANGELS

 PREPARING FOR ANGELS

Midnight,

late in December of

my sixty-third year on earth,

I stood alone beneath the ironwood tree,

near the southern shore of Lake Superior.

There,

in that awful silence

and the clean, crystalline cold

I heard the sound of snowflakes

arranging their warm, intricate patterns

on the withered, shivering oak leaves of autumn.

Preparing for angels.

John A. Bayerl, December, 2000

It seems appropriate to post this poem again in light of the season.  I wrote this when Gwen and I lived in Marquette, when cancer and being alone could never have been thought possible.  The poem is about a night in Gaastra when, after I partook of Bertha’s Christmas feast, I left the warmth of the house and the gathering of my new in-laws and went for a walk alone.  It was one of those zero-degree nights when snow fell straight down as the bitter cold squeezed every last bit of moisture from the air.  The world has a sense of awe at times like that; it is almost foolish to try to capture it in words. 

On that night I walked a short way into the woods behind the house; stopped beneath a tree, and heard the distinct sound of snowflakes, one-by-one, settling on dry leaves.  It is a memory that I cherish; the comforting solitude of that moment and knowing that all of the love I would need in this world was waiting for me in the house; in the presence of my new bride.

Later that night, Dear, we experienced the warmth of each other, and the cold world seemed so far away.