The engine rolls off and the plane lifts,
the tremor shoots up, seatbelts securely fastened.
Below, roofs become a sporadic play
of indeterminable shapes and colors.
The plane glides across this whiteness and you wonder
if those were white wings of angels
hiding behind each ear of a cloud
and you seek for a semblance of a flutter,
of feathers moving, preparing for flight,
tiny feet lilting.
Eyes strain, was it God's fingers running through
the fluff of air visibly pink in the sunlight?
When the sky clears, you read
her name spelled across in letters of smoke.
Touch-down, you see heads looking up,
mouths wide-open, eyes blinded by wisps
of light that gather around her name:
an angel is landing.
