i don’t think my mother
ever brushed my hair.
and if she did,
i can’t remember it.
i could lie and say
that i wonder why,
but i know why.
it was because
she was busy with
my sister’s brand-new curls,
busy tending to her own
dark roots and dry ends.

when i am a mother,
i will balance my sons
and daughters on my lap
and one by one
comb through
their soft mops
with patient hands.

they will never wonder
why i left them
to sort out
the knots
on their own.

they will know
i am there
to help untangle
the predestined messes
caused by the wind,
and caused by me.

Why do I see angels
That no one else can see?
They look like people
Just like you and like me.
They are everywhere
I have ever chanced to go.
They work their magic secretly
So nobody else can know.

I see them helping people
With subtle acts of kindness
And don’t seem to suffer from
What is a common blindness.
They don’t look for rewards
Or the sound of public applause.
They share with generosity
And quietly work at their cause.

They don’t have wings
But they are angels nonetheless.
They fit the titled perfectly.
We really don’t have to guess.
I’m beginning to think
Maybe I should not even try
To figure this one out
For me to understand why.

Why do I see angels
That no one else can see?
They look like people
Just like you and like me.
They are everywhere
I have ever chanced to go.
They work their magic secretly
So nobody else can know.

I am the borrowed time giver
I wait by the edges of beds
I prop up the corners and smooth out the wrinkles
I'm also the turner of heads

I am the lone sea breaker
My whisper it shepherds your dreams
You have awoken on a
Distant shore, it seems

I am the voice of antiquity
Tethered to leaves on the wind
I am the cloth that covers you
When you have sinned

I am the borrowed time lender
Your hope, it rides on my wings
I am the broken mind mender
All I can do is offer you these things

Mine is the touch of changes
Though none of them I can claim
I sweep up the mirror pieces
That reflect your shame

I am the blind leading the blind
I have no secret gift
The truth is what you'll find
When the veil you needn't lift

We are the worm food growers
The crawlers, they rule from below
They eat up the dead and squeeze out the living
And time marches on just so

I sit at your bedside to provide you comfort and a true friendship that only one of the dying could ever understand. I hold your hand as you struggle to breathe, and I silently pray you find some relief, and I wipe the beads of sweat from your face and whisper let it be. And once you have finally let go of this world in the most satisfying of peace, and once your soul has taken flight from this very moment to be, I thank God for allowing me to spend it with you. When my time arrives, I can only hope there is such a caring spirit to fulfill such a dire need.