Memento Mori

The road executes a sharp curve
pulling me toward the shoulder where
a concrete angel kneels in the grass.

Exhaust and gravel dust feather her wings
the grey of overcast skies. She bows her head
as if to contemplate the offerings at her feet:
silk flowers once purple and red, now bleached;
a plastic crèche, the birth of one child
at the foot of another’s death.

The statue marks the place on the highway
where someone’s daughter leapt into light.
But this gray angel will never soar among
celestial bodies. The massive monument
presses against the earth’s breast.