By Kathleen Thomas, age 14, Maine
Fallen angels
Tumbling through clouds and mists
Throwing a dappled pattern on the floor
Penetrating the murky ink of a mountain cave
Trusted couriers
Falling straight and true
Never deviating from their path
They never take detours or change direction
Except when they see a mirror
They can’t resist stopping just to see their reflection
They are vain
But they are also constant and golden
They make the ordinary glow
They turn dust mites into fairy magic
And seeds of brown into blooms of hues
They warm the broken heart
But punish the ill-prepared traveler
They reveal those who’d like to stay hidden
But heal a hopeless soul
Sun rays are jacks-of-all-trades
