Piercing night   ascending  
descending   sky to ground   our light footfalls
in fluid motion pass through air   make
no sound   No spiral   or criss-cross flights
but one uninterrupted series of stairs
ten thousand climbing angels in glowing white  
ten thousand more   trodding down
down from heaven’s height
from the foot of God’s own throne
right down to a stone   a shaken scoundrel’s
using for his pillow   Why would we wonder
         to what purpose   this display
when we know wisdom whispers   obey?