from November Angels by Jane Hirshfield
A single, cold blossomtumbles, fledgedfrom the sky’s white branch.And the angelslook on,observing what falls:all of it falls . . .
Angels as observers.
The afternoonlengthens, steepens,flares out—no matter for them.It is assentingthat makes them angels,neither increasednor decreasedby the clamorous heart:their only workto shine back,however the passing brightnesshurts their eyes.
Angels watching. Saying yes. Shining back.
It is assenting
that makes them angels
The full text of November Angels used to be available at the Poetry Foundation, but, alas, is no longer.
The photo is of a print, Blossoms Falling, by Masha Schweitzer at the Los Angeles Printmaking site.