the faint pink flower falling from the tree
does not ask where we can hear it anyway
will they remember me,
500 years from now or even next Christmas.
not marble or the guilded monuments sighed Shakespeare.
immortal or not, obscurely the poet writes
brightening his own midnights, if
no one else's.
we are the folded wing asleep or
we are awake and dreaming.
either way, God keeps us.
maybe. our poems, too
in the impearled libraries of the far Heavens
mary angela douglas 16 august 2014
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