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Jean Cassidy     July, 2021

Canopied by honeysuckle vine, the mallow and mayapple stretch to find sun.
The vine settles, then rises on a breeze. Like emissaries, finger-thin petals,
point to the distance.

Teetering as though on a threshold, she strains for what she tries to see.

Early adolescence, comfortable with family, friends, and few surprises,
her first real date this Saturday, just the two of them. The conversation,
hers to manage, without others there to spark the flow.

Described as quiet and polite, she’s learned to listen,
to keep feelings to herself free from critique.
Dating is of interest mainly to keep up with school friends.

Her mind and imagination have travelled beyond that now, pulled
to an emergent path, scary and intriguing – the Cold War,
Stonewall, the Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam.

She understands that some still believe in angels,
messengers that arrive in dreams descended from clouds,
who bespeak beauty, power, protection.

She’s come to believe in another kind of angel.
Lucifer, the light-bearer, arises from the underworld
with destructive power, that overshadows everything,



poetry, wnc writer, writing

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