All About Angels Poem by Abraham de la Torre

The angel did not need a magic wand
To wave for what it had was pure command
Dictated by a depth whose only wish
Ran similar to ripples like a beat.

Another wish was earlier exhaled
When, at their first tryst, father posed a guess
Would son appreciate a longed-for guest;
Not one, Dad said, but two of his friends best.

The angel, ever to abide, was quick
Like, to discern was its devoted quirk
It probably was one of those that blessed
The audience with its presence at the birth.

A message came, one of the friends might not
Make it. The reason, undisclosed, was mulled.
Politely, the question begged to be asked
And did; his foster Pa had an attack.

An angel has all faculties and that
Which it employs the most is not its sight.
It sees but doesn’t look because its heart
Is busy listening to play its part.

Undaunted, one of the friends decided
The visit is a must if, with regret,
The other is waylaid by a concern
As crucial as their mutual lonely friend.

An angel prays without publicity
Its supplication sends an energy
Emboldening and generates a grit
To shun propriety pathos admit.

Albeit without sleep the other pal
Considered giving it another try;
The rain abetted and, before the night
Broke through, he will set things aright.

The angel in the early morning light
Was waiting with a calm that is as bright
As an anticipation filled with cheer
Reunion draws increasingly so near.

However late, his tidings were as good
As rising early to believe the third
Simbang gabi another milestone turned
To coincide with his decision made.

An angel wraps its gift simplicitly
No paper, ribbon nor calligraphy;
The starkness of the color red is blood
That flows pristine and sheds its heart like flood.

One of the friends came early next to him
There was no worry even if between
Them a consensus was ‘twas lack of sleep
The time was one more word he could not keep.

An angel does not lend its wings is true
As much as selflessness is with it, too.
And so, the three of them, wayfarers all
Without its wings answered a common call.

He used to look through him with eyes that stare
At nothing. Now his eyes are glowing, there
Is pulse in his profession as a boy
So pure and unadulterated: joy.