In a Yellow Light

Diaper-clad,
I was dash and go
from the rainy-day house
for a thing remembered;
fig tree fitting the gap
of fence line.
Return was the breath of being,
separate from my mother’s lap.
Transfixed
in a vessel of light,
angels must have
borne me up—
no utterance of song,
no whoosh of wings
in that circle of quiet.