The Angels Spoke Over My Mother Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The sun is feathered and the mountains are
Young:
Can’t you see them, though they are running away
And my father is selling fireworks
Through a succession of make-believe days:
And this is your world,
But it is not mine- I am still trying to get clear
From school
To disappear somewhere beside
The carports and their washing machines
Where once the angels spoke over my mother
Who was folding the clothes-
But she never imagined that they would ever
Have anything to say to her, and now they have all
Moved so far away.