Maybe

maybe in a distant age when you are gone
someone will pick up the leaves and bind them again,
of poetry 

as the monks did once repairing the gilding

on the stars
and birds in their several languages will
be trusted to sing and not disbarred.

now we live without wings
as if we had burrowed ourselves into
an everlasting sleep in the afternoons

no longer evergreen

go throw tinsel on it all
and call it a Tree. or we have

thrown ourselves down a well like a sea
from which there is no fishing out.

I sing God on my lips like snow
his rains washed continually me
his winds helped me to breathe, to know

I was his kite and truly
he held the string
in all my wanderings among the clouds

among the shades of  varying blue
who is the name for for all roselight I have revered

that you have made into
the caricature of all caricatures
rather than heed Him..

or have made Him smaller than the smallest acorn thing.
even though you know (you must) that is the diamond seed
from which it all springs

and the meteors reign. and we all rust without Him.
in the beginning where were you
who think it all got here

with a firecracker pop.
I do not mean to appear disdainful
and Im not

I just don't understand
what else you've got
you think will save you.

mary angela douglas 11 augustt 2019