Faces

everyone has a face that floats before them
some have many.
flower on a stem

it always seems that way
till when the face goes away.
so many reasons for going

then you might wonder
do they show the same face
to the others they may meet

is it street light glowing

on the street or going from there to here
some faces I fear.
their loss, petal by petal

some because they seem of metal
made;betraying nothing.
if they speak there is no clank of armour

no beauty in defeat, the wary faces
the wicked the ragged wolves
waiting their turn

or the ones who never emerged

no depths shadowing.
pumpkin head from a scary fable
and then the pumpkin falls off.

i know enough now of faces to know
sometimes you can tell very little from them.
though the madrigal proclaims the brow

arched like a swallow.
they may well be made of rain or snow.

sometimes faces are a continual weeping
you want the sun to shine on them again
and as we age what can we say then

sometimes our faces melt
though they are made of clay.
they seem almost to be sick

and you think a little humorously
maybe they can just stay home for the day, the faces
and get better poor balloon face, puffy face

loosing its elastic

and I'll show up at work like a coat rack stick
or a ladder. what does it matter.
some faces alter and are transposed

they have music in them
even in repose.
those faces I love.

my own face I do not know.
if my heart telegrams it what
to show to those ahead. or

to shut down like a lily instead.
some faces I cannot leave
and yet I must

as we go dust to dust
the dust of roses, stars some say
with so much to convey

blown now through the interstellar winds
of His enfolding grace or deep cellar rooted
like tulips...maybe by Easter to be

kaleidoscope flowers no longer in hours where
dear, beyond recall
there are no surfaces left at all.

o face like a crumpled rose
will they recognize you in Heaven's garden.

mary angela douglas august 24 2019