The Last Word That You Said

I dreamed that poetry was the last word that you said
the one that had broken off, broken off starlight and
fallen by the road

and it had taken root where no one knew
and broken into bloom
and had become a vast tree

some said the tree of night made more beautiful
with the moon behind clouds and moonlight, then,
imagined.

moonlight then imagined it was poetry too
as there were no singers left who would sing that
when called upon to sing

in storerooms where the dead arts are kept, 
in the attics of beauty long neglected
where children go to play

when it rains, when they are disconsolate,
to discover they still can wear it
though it doesn't fit them yet:

moonlight, the yard, and the blossoming blossoming Tree.

mary angela douglas 12 june 2019