If angels were to roost upon the rafters
of Grandfather Elijah's cattle barn,
their pale feathers littering the hayloft,
like whispered messages from the Holy Ghost,
the government-imposed ceiling of a harvest of feed corn,
or the product of fifteen acres of prime soybeans,
might rise to a level
where a profit could be had.
Grandmother Kaye would cancel her
Wednesday night prayer meeting
and invite the parishioners to the farm
to watch seraphic beings gather in the twilight.
The rain would fall when it was needed,
the fields wouldn't need spraying to combat
ragweed, thistle and rootworm.
Aunt Jane's truck patch would thrive as never before,
her cabbages and potatoes seeing us through the whole year.
The tractor wouldn't need fixing, the bank would stop calling,
and maybe my mom would no longer need to go dancing
around a bonfire, naked, in the evenings.