Whispers of the Land

My angel with wings of blue and gold 
doesn’t ask me to write a book, 
doesn’t nudge me into channeling 
higher wisdom to serve humanity.
My angel sits with me
and we look at the flowers together,
and listen to the wind playing in the leaves.
My angel of sparkly, violet light
that moves with laughing, ringing, 
opal bells of small design
brings thoughts of lightness, fun and joy.
She hugs me tightly and effortlessly 
and tickles me into laughter of delight.
And the clouds pass.
And I see clearly who I am.

My angel dances when I dance,
in ecstatic waves of creative love.
She writes when I write
in luxurious ripples
of honey sweet blessings.
My angel doesn’t guide me into 
fixing myself.
She whispers,
“You already are, who you say you want to become.”
I smile, and so does she.