Etched In The Stone The Weeping Fern Survived

[to Tommy Dykeman, childhood friend-

earnestly searching for arrowheads and fossils.

in the vacant lot, on a Sunday afternoon]

etched in the stone the weeping fern survived

to startle the finders who may never find

what it felt like to be green leafed trapped in rock

no longer under tender shade by the violets;

wondering what became of them, the summer

clouds that day

or the lime green mosses where the children played

in their secret homes near the waterfall spume;

or sweeping the forest floor with pine twig brooms,

and rainbow wreathed where the light

came through the trees so sequined glancing off

the girl in cardinal red, her silver buttons.

but heavy words professionally said contain 

merely the shadows of  crystal leaded starlight,

never the stained glass ray straight through the heart

but cut-and dried

and stowed away for the after parties-

igneous permutations of the Rose

colleague to colleague

whispering

the things for which

great prizes are bestowed

in rooms with little air-

while the living transcription,

imprint on the soul

vivid as lightning never caught in a bottle-

lives on unknown and still imbued 

and otherwhere,soft grey the Nightingale

far from the Palace,against the pink rose skies

perhaps, in this-

perhaps, in you, survives

mary angela douglas 1 may 2014;rev. 18 november 2014