angel poem

i burn no incense
in the cloud-gray mornings
beneath my window in a city street
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
three years ago today
white foam flower, red flame flower
it tells of good old times
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
which i wish to remark
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
to come so soon to this imagined dark
though i am little as all little things