Poetry Is The Gold, Past Deconstructing

is it the gold you might not see at first
flashing through the trees in the cold
of a world that does not recognize these

fragments of love letters
written on the wind
in ancient texts

the texts of dreams part-way
unscrolled and then you wake up.
is it that light foreshadowed, unshadowed

when clouds come
that you would articulate
for no other reason than

that you can or that, otherwise,
it may vanish
from human understanding?

or that, as a child, you still
command your alphabet blocks,
see words in pictures first

and more densely;

densely to expose, partially,
like the light through the trees
spontaneously imploding,

the density of the heart
imposed upon?
what can words impart of

light of light of light

questioned the poets they deride
through impoverished midnights
down to their very souls

awaiting the Unheard.

but light but light
is not easily deconstructed
flitter all the silver birds

at dawn.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2016