The Golden Angel Poem by Duy Bui

The New England weather cuddles incessantly
my steps and turns.
Hibernating feelings rise and fall,
in conversations over invisible lines
of the modern sky.
These feelings inspires the inner quest
for my golden angel.

Even in Maine’s brittle winds, when one
feels the shortest yellow rays on their pale skins,
a passionate flame could be lit.
The burning and fading flame escapes and
returns in our barrels and barrels of snowy memories.
In her absent when she took wings to the far away land
unfriendly of the sea, I silent all to listen
for heaven’s gentle flashes; and they silent me.
Too often, I hear choirs of morning seagulls sing the never-ending
song of the golden angel. Their voices wade the
transparent sea of quietude.