Angels can be found in it

The answer is snow,
but also the soft sky
of old paintings, head
of a pin, flameborne
end of the world —

you always loved this,
these small puzzles.
The mystery is all
you ever demanded
to experience. A clue

toward something
beautiful, lines
of poetry uncapped
by punctuation, light
slitting through blinds

on something strange
as morning arrives.
You solve so many
crosswords now, fill
so many empty boxes

with language. As if
in all this bounded
meaning you yearn
for an annunciation,
paper trumpets

and angels in snow
and fire. Trivial
revelation, a solution
to a clue you’ve been
embodying all along.