And so it is Boxing Day,
the day after Christmas, and
here comes one of my angels,

the little frizzy, red-haired one
with her stubby wings,
flitting around at an odd angle,

listing to starboard,
as if she can’t quite achieve
a straight line, always tilted

like a quizzical hummingbird.
I move slowly amid the detritus
of present sorting and wrapping

as she zooms in closer, her laser
blue eyes narrowing for a better
look, and I realize that she might

be off kilter because she’s tossing—
is that red glitter?—while humming
“We Wish You a Merry Christmas,”

like some form of benediction,
which I suppose it is. I hate to tell
her, “That was yesterday,” knowing

that there are likely no clocks in
her part of forever. Why should
they care about time? Clearly,

this visitation, like other angelic ones,
is about receiving an unexpected,
glittering gift. As one of my

once-upon-a-time earth angels
liked to say, “A girl can never have
too much glitter”—though she can,

really—the stuff infiltrates everything.
All this takes maybe four seconds
before the angel zooms straight

for me, lips pursed as if she’s going
to let loose a whistle or deposit
a zinger of a divine kiss, when

the dazzle of all that glitter erupts
into a holy light show of volcanic
fountaining, sparkly pinwheels

spiraling (are those galaxies?),
and I stand there, mouth agape like
a shepherd who’s just been visited

by an angel and told to get moving:
There’s a miracle to see, darling,
and you don’t want to miss it.