Few of us in this world tease the light 
so that its glow goes large, the way it does 
(we’re told) when angels breathe it in and out. 
“That’s where clouds come from too,” 
my five-year-old exulted, with a look of doubt 
as to whether I could make this knowledge mine. 

Breathing out clouds, I thought: a fine 
poetic path toward science. I pulled up short  
of  the obvious, the polluted air in human climes.  
“Bobby Prinzer said the clouds are angels' toots,” 
she said, giggling and covering her mouth 
with one berry-purpled hand. "But everybody knows 
that angels don't have toot-holes anyway." 

Well, I suspected it, I allowed. "And also too,  
the clouds are what the angels sleep on 
when they take a nap," she said, and then 
she stopped, as one hand softly clapped her cheek. 
“Maybe smog is what the Devil toots!” she said. 

Aha. And where do devils sleep? I asked. 
She squinted, turned her head of sunny curls 
and crowed:  If they took time to sleep, 
they couldn’t be so mean! I thought of how  
evil never rests, and feeds upon good faith 
and the love that energizes it. 
No naps for the wicked then. 

So, clouds come out of angels’ breath, I said, 
but what about the light? Where’s that come from?
She looked at me with love and tenderness, 
caressing my pitiable age with her glad bright glow. 
“I think you know,” she said, “angels breathe light 
because they love it. They don’t need oxy-gin 
like we do.” She kept her gaze on mine 
long enough to make sure I was with her, 
still sane, or sane enough to follow reason. 

“Angels breathe the light, and that makes clouds,” 
she said. “They nap on the clouds, and that makes rain.” 
She closed her eyes and turned her face up toward the sky. 
My hand went out to catch the first cool drops.