what is more divinely opulent than the red
of a maple leaf as it skitters before you
on the path
or on the pavement
on the way home from school
with that cider tang blue chill
in the air feeling as if
there were too much sparkling in God
and he had to reveal it
whether he felt within him to do so
in that moment or not
and I am the child or I was, I have not forgot,
the one caught in that instant
as I reach down in my plaid dress
to gather it in
to keep that colour alas
was always a something
not meant to come to pass
why then do I still feel
the need to collect each leaf
dancing to the ground,
each Ophelian leaf
incapable of its own distress
as Shakespeare wrote of his heroine.
Shakespeare wrote in gold
though he wasn't sure of that
a something imperishable
and somehow, it has become imperishable
all that he wrote though he thought
his thought would be melting monuments.
the rich red leaf is even more finely composed
yet vanishes each to each.
why then do I feel
no matter how many autumns old
this compulsion to save it, them,
as if it could be so.
no matter how much I know
to the contrary
of what is possible.
here on earth.
mary angela douglas 16 may 2019
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