Uriel handed me his sword,
all blazing light
and fiery glory.
"Well, I'm off,"
said he.
His wings,
dusty with disuse,
fluttered, three times in all,
leaving behind a shimmer
of old feathers
and the smell of
thunder.
God! but that sword
was heavy, laden
with a dangerous beauty.
I had to shield
my eyes from its refracted radiance.
It set off sparks, there at the
suddenly unguarded Gate.
Its hinges sang a dissonant and rusty hymn,
a sound like a gathering host of angels
readying themselves for battle
or morning prayer.
I stepped into the Garden,
where nothing had died
for ten thousand years,
and then ten thousand more,
and then more,
and then more.
Nothing could die, leaving
the Garden choked with weeds
and the glorious Presence of God.
What a waste.
I let the sword lay
where it lied,
smoldering
pointless,
a plaything of angels
and Gods.
in an overgrown, empty garden
and closed the Gate
behind me.
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