we were incapable of anything but beauty:
striving to know, to see in the smallest thing
its pearl snow shining, momentary; even so
we held onto clouds, veils of illusion,
tints of the rose, the gold, the mint,
the summertime, the cooling shade forever,
all our money spent
slipping away so that we laughed
like children with burst bubbles
and the soap dripping over the porch
steps, rainbow deflated.
I have waited a lifetime to be proven otherwise
that we weren't wise in this
though foolish in all other things
to note the butterfly wing, the turning of the leaf
the bud in spring; to feast on the pinkness vanishing,
brushing the tears aside
from those who derided us;
hoping in afternoon mail.
seeking the holy grail.
and beauty, beauty
has not failed us.
mary angela douglas july 18 2016