Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Angels weep . . .

Angels weep as
sparrows hop along the white patio fence,
knocking off little drifts of snow
by the light of a pale moon,
their feet too small for frostbite
this cold, spare morning
with more winter on the way.
The bird feeder sways empty.
The house is quiet;
Sunday rounds the week
with dreadful deaths.
We fill the bird feeder
and mourn.

Who is not affected by the shooting deaths in Newtown, Connecticut, as the circle of violence and grief expands out to include us all. Yet each day begins anew. My report in for ROW80 will be mercifully short. I'm writing and making slow progress. Feeling sad.


  1. Lovely poem! Thanks for sharing...and thanks for visiting my blog.

  2. Very nice..what would we do without routine to keep us going some times? The pets, the wildlife, the small children that must still be cared for. They are also the promise each new day.

  3. Very moving poem. Newtown is 45 minutes from us, a town so very like my own: safe, historic, family-oriented. In many ways it feels like 9/11 again. We all, even my kids, know someone who lost someone.

    My heart is breaking for those parents, families and loved ones. Those poor little angels.

  4. When our second child, Elijah, died in 2003, at 12 days old, the routines of caring for 22- month old Jeremiah were our balm.

    I love this poem, as much as I cry for the circumstances of its creation. What a fitting tribute to small lives taken so quickly, and so violently.

    Dona noblis pacem - give us peace.