Speaking of Angels

Comparing puffins to angels made me remember this old poem of mine.

The people are like trees
Mark 9

I have a
secret. There was
a man once,
who took my
hand and led
me away from
the clamor of
voices and the press
of bodies. I heard
them fading, felt
them passing—I
was blind then,
blind from splinters
of rock in the
quarry, but
that story
is finished
now. I am
telling you a
secret, how a
man with calloused
hands, workman's
hands, hands
a man could
trust, took me
away to a quiet
place and spat
and laid those
hands upon my
scarred eyes, and
I saw something
beautiful, I saw
people like
trees walking,
long and thin
and leaning, like
tall and reedy
angels, the world
stretched long
and wavering,
and I heard
laughter in that
workman's voice,
that carpenter
turned teacher, and
he touched my
eyes again
and the normal
world returned,
that safe and
sane place
I used to
know, and
he smiled at
me and told
me where
I must not go—
I understood
he was shy
about the
power in his
rough hands.
I hear things
sometimes about
him still—wonder
worker, prophet—
the Romans
crucified him, you
know, put
nails through
his hands, the
hands that rested
on my eyes
for a brief
moment. It
was quiet
where he
took me, and
I think he gave
me something
with his spit
and hands.
The first time,
when all the
people
were like
trees, I
saw that
they were
holy, and
I think he
always
saw things
that way,
like an angel,
maybe, and
not a man, and
that's the
most
beautiful
thing that's
ever happened
to me, being
taken by
his hand
and given
sight. I
see clearly
now, but I
want to
whisper to
you that the
people, the
people are
still like
trees, like
angels, bending
in the wind of the
world, and I
love them
all.