Wrapped up in vines,
she stands out in the light

of a thousand-watt bulb.
Who would want an angel

of such proportions
in their own back yard?

She reins in giant wings.
Will assume no other pose

even if the trumpet sounds.
Perhaps she was chosen

not to guard a lawn
rife with brown spots

and fading yellow roses
but for the stone itself,

a stab at permanence.
Maybe she said touch me.

I am as solid and real
as you think I am.