These Trees, These Yellow Poplars

these trees appear more golden when it rains
than they were before, she said, and it makes me wonder
going out the door: was there another door

opening then  that unproverbial shower of
fairytale gold that falls on the deserving in
old stories; sometimes, after long trials

are over and you have been kind to
even the ogres on the road, you know,
and so, were the trees gold too?

partaking in the magical turn of fortune
a bit of the glitter flung their way

that they should be so endowed
or is it that here against the grey drizzle of a sky
they flame out momentarily making their

own light having no other recourse
missing the Sun more than
tongue can tell

or faith, abide.

mary angela douglas 1 november 2015