I was moved by your poem and few I've read do that to me. I got choked up: one of the proofs for me that a poem holds a universe of emotion is that it can race my heart, blur my eyes, give a tremble to my lip. And this poem did that for me. And you end it with the word "surrender," which is the door through which you finally enter to learn all the answers that once clouded your mind.
'I will be
my own greatest Work
when I surrender.'
This line reminds me of Shakespeare's 'to thine own self be true'.... If it is within us to converse with angels, then our soul finds the answers.
It's like hanging out with the right crowd, so to speak...lol. I'm not making light of your verse because it's profound and beautiful and another favorite.
So very lovely, my friend although my sense of humour is a bit off...
Brooding on this elegantly succinct contemplation of creative-spiritual process, I'm reminded of William Blake's immortal "Damn braces, bless relaxes."
It also summons the comparable tantric paradox, "By passion you are bound, by passion you are released."
In other words, the surrender is ever set up by an integrally informed effort, the core yin-yang of Consciousness.
In conversing with angels, it's also good to recall they are more likely beings of daimonic awe than sentimental guardians. I think Rilke touched on this.
Your fine and understated poem catalyzes poetics itself. Good work!
to the Lost Boys
I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.
Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much g.. more..