Michaelangelo is painting ceilings still
his back not to a platform, gravity has not the will
to bring he and his colors down
green, green high above the ground.
Mother gave you a ring, every anniversary
traced a circle in your skin, so you’d remember everything
a string tied around your limb
blowing in an ocean wind.
The closest that most living things
will ever get to Heaven
on the skirts of the Saints
North of all the Angels
I am here below
trying to grow.
I could take you home, plant you in my yard
wait a hundred years or so, and see how far
I could climb up then
but they might not let me in.
So I’ll just wait right here in this great cathedral
Messiahs it has witnessed, through the fires its persisted
priests and presidents and me
gone before the last of it leaves.
The closest that most living things
will ever get to Heaven
on the skirts of the Saints
North of all the Angels
I am here below
trying to grow.
Trying to grow home.
– © Heather Aubrey Lloyd
