Tante Ethel in the Willow

She must have been as near seventy
as makes no difference to the child I was.
Her navy Keds dangled above our heads
for an instant. Then she was up behind
the green leaves’ lace—two bare arms and a sleeveless
cotton blouse flouting the shivers of light.
She was always the tomboy recalled a sister
on the ground. Dead many years her husband,
Herm, had farmed with her—best-natured my father
said, of all his uncles. But he was just a name
to me, messenger of the gods on a tractor,
illustrated with winged boots. Around us bolts
of gold and blue plummeted from inestimable
heights, as angels throw down their hearts
                                                   on the promise of more.