These long nights keeping watch,
standing vigil, you carry with you
a kind of mantra—not much longer—

counting the hours till dawn,
peering out the window for the first
suggestion of morning that signals

relief in the form of someone who
will arrive with gentle reassurances
that, even when solo, you are not alone.

That the someone might not be embodied
does not matter. In fact, when she arrives
on the wings of first light, shell pink

morphing into soft tangerine, though
you cannot see her, you will feel her
hovering near the one you are tending,

quelling fever, brushing away pain,
delivering rest to the restless.
And when you feel a gentle touch

on your brow, when, from between
your shoulder blades, she untucks
the wings you’ve grown,

fluffing them like a gossamer veil,
you remember that you, too, are doing
the work of angels who appear

when the deepest dark begins
to lighten, bringing ease to the uneasy,
love to the difficult to love,

and oh, blesséd peace, which you
feared had fled, but now you see—
as if for the first time,

as if it has just been given to you—
cradled in the center of your
freshly unfurled palms.