never has a soul in it but me.
The hydrangeas, the forsythia bushes, the tulips—
the beds were laid out by my grandfather.
When I look out the upstairs window
she is sitting on a bench
near the roses.
The angel is a little girl,
the one who disappeared two years ago.
One of her wings is broken,
twisted,
drooping on her shoulder.
If I stand at that window
looking down,
she raises her head.
Her lips move.
“Help me,” I see her saying.
Yet when I walk here,
this garden
never has a soul in it but me.
The hydrangeas, the forsythia bushes, the tulips—
the beds were laid out by my grandfather.
When I look out the upstairs window
she is sitting on a bench
near the roses.
The angel is a little girl,
the one who disappeared two years ago.
One of her wings is broken,
twisted,
drooping on her shoulder.
If I stand at that window
looking down,
she raises her head.
Her lips move.
“Help me,” I see her saying.
Yet when I walk here,
this garden
never has a soul in it but me.
A poem has recently appeared in The Chamber Magazine, and David Hutto has previously won the Byron Herbert Reece award for 2020 (first place) and for 2021 (third place) from the Georgia Poetry Society. In addition, he has twice been a featured poet at the Callanwolde Arts Center in Atlanta.
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