Angels in Boston

I swore I saw angels in Boston that day.
When an eight year-old was lying on the ground,
his life floating away.
A bomb’s explosion is the loudest sound
for the ear of a child;
he had so much to give.
Tree limbs are falling
under the heat of the sky.
The sun burning brightly,
causing the salt behind my lids
to make me cry.
And the limbs they are scattered
with poppies on the ground;
a bomb’s explosion
must be the loudest sound.
For in the meadow, there are limbs from trees.
Where I reach, the poppies bleed,
for they bleed and grow
wherever I may go.
And as for the angels, they sit on the poppies below.
They come down from the heavens
to come and help people transition;
for there is another place
the wounded trees would rather go,
like a place in the skies
where they won’t ever have to die.
For an eight year-old was lying
on the streets of Boston that day,
when the skies were bright and clear,
and he was smiling away.
But the tree limbs have become scattered,
and his poppies they surely grow,
because in Boston that day
I saw angels in the meadow;
I watched the eight year-old go.