Here is what Christine Simms says about the poem, “Angels,” by Mary Oliver, below:
“As children we dwell in a world with fluid boundaries between the human and the world of fairies, demons, and angels. And then not. Yet, as we age, if we hold onto wonder, we open once again to the wisdom of our early years.”
“Angels,” by Mary Oliver
You might see an angel anytime
and anywhere. Of course you have
to open your eyes to a kind
of second level, but it’s not really
hard. The whole business of
what’s reality and what isn’t has
never been solved and probably
never will be. So I don’t care to
be too definite about anything.
I have a lot of edges called Perhaps
and almost nothing you can call
Certainty. For myself, but not
for other people. That’s a place
you just can’t get into, not
entirely anyway, other people’s heads.
I’ll just leave you with this.
I don’t care how many angels can
dance on the head of a pin. It’s
enough to know that for some people
they exist, and that they dance.