There is an angel cascading from our window frame,

made of stained glass at an artist's hands,

purchased from a little shop stumbled upon when wandering.

By the window at her feet,

we placed flowers dwelling in a vase of water,

short-lived their out-of-soil bloom,

but wondrous nonetheless.

Art and plants, growth and loss,

all part of the experience,

this human, this angel, these flowers

wrapped in morning light.