Prisoner of Love
 
 
I find that I sleep poorly since my death.
 
About the time the planets cross the black
star-speckled quadrants, I get up. I drift
in slippers from my bedroom, read a book –
and as I gaze, the sky is filled with angels,
ascending and descending like a leaf
the wind blows. I who saw the seraphim
in my brief stay in Heaven know that gold
and light and music, that slow rush of wings.

John Claiborne Isbell

If you have any thoughts about this poem,   John Claiborne Isbell  would be pleased to hear them