Sleep slides through the cracks in my peace
where it split like a ripe tomato
roasting on the vine,
so tired it hurts,
the swelter in my heart
hotter than the wilting summer heat
and I reach out a floppy arm
to tag heaven in

 for some help with scooching over,
to see with cooler eyes
and find some fresh ways
like a fistful of new crayons
in colors I haven’t met before

and I start laughing at the words
that tumble silly from my mouth
- angels be busy,
kind of giggled, wholehearted,
because the knot at the end of myself
is feeling rubbed in butter
and I dangle,  swinging low.

And wouldn’t you know,
they swung low,  too,  to carry me some home,
some fresh cooling space to stretch out uncrowded,
and how it calms my wiggly spirit,
the pain no longer rolling me
and  a willowy feeling settled in
when I danced around the room.

And,  yeah,  I’d rather do life with more polish
like a band that’s tight
instead of what I am
but I put my hands up
and grin as they swirl the air
while angels being busy wrap my bits of earth in healing,
raining down protection,
infusing now with forever
like they do.

“Joy is the best makeup”   -Anne Lammott

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for awhile
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