by James Cucinella
I cannot say how angels look,
except the special ones, who took
shape and substance in my path
when I faced the devil’s wrath,
have always shown quite ordinary faces
and appeared in very ordinary places.
They always come with a gift,
bringing something meant to lift:
a bird singing at winter’s end,
a cheerful letter from a friend,
a star emerging from a cloud,
a stranger smiling in a crowd.
Then God’s messenger, bright and clear,
came to bring God’s goodness near.
©1986 James Cucinella
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