She Talks to Angels

She moves like mist,
low and drifting,
where twilight turns gold into shadows.
The world holds her softly,
a delicate secret
tucked into the corners of the wind.
And when you see her there,
standing still as a hymn
at the edge of the garden’s light,
you’ll know—
she is speaking to something
we cannot see.

The old clock in the hall forgets to chime
when she disappears,
slipping from the room like smoke,
her black coat folding into the dusk.
No one follows her,
no one dares to ask—
“Where do you go?”
Because the silence she leaves behind
feels heavier than words.

Out past the fields,
where the grass grows wild and tall,
she finds them.
I think they’ve been waiting—
the angels she speaks of,
the quiet keepers of her gaze.
She tilts her face to the stars,
her arms open wide,
and I wonder what it is they give her.
Some light we can’t hold?
Some music we can’t hear?

There are nights when she returns,
her hair tangled with rain,
her eyes carrying storms
that never fell here.
She sits by the fire,
her hands stretched to the flame,
but she says nothing of where she’s been.
And we don’t ask,
for fear her voice might split the air
like glass.

“She talks to angels,” they whisper in town.
“She’s strange, but she’s kind.”
And strange is what they call
what they do not understand.
But I’ve seen her with the sparrows,
heard the way she hums
as the blackbirds perch,
watching from fences like sentinels.

In summer, she gathers white lilies,
one by one,
her basket heavy with their scent.
She says angels follow flowers,
that they come closer
when you offer the simple things.
I asked her once why they listen to her.
She looked...