Jim Daniels, American poet, born born 1956
AT SIXTY-FIVE
Jim Daniels
This morning I fell back
into deep snow
and dug myself into a snow angel.
Yeah. I didn’t tell anyone. I mean,
c’mon, right?
Who did I think I was
kidding? I shook then, as if touched
by — not God, or icy fever,
but some lost tender spirit?
What I want to say is that
when I stood, I suddenly
lost all grace and nearly
fell onto my angel. My hand-
print to save myself
lies where my heart is/was/
should be, a badge in the
snow-dusted grass.
I noticed then the size
of my wings, their broad
sweeping arc —
Who made those? I asked
as snow continued falling.
I looked up into it,
almost dazzled again
at sixty-five.