I believe every blade of grass that ever died on earth
is up in Heaven;God would be that much of a scrap booker.
and the red clover too
certain specimens of the wild onion.
some in glass cases clearly labeled in Palmer handwriting.
and albums of brown wrapping paper
to showcase the meadow lark, the finches
their feathers as they fell caught up by angels
or snowdrift, rising in the wind.
a jar of old marbles. the see through crystal blue
the tiger's eye.
and so many jams put by
the hobbits would approve.
what do I know of heaven.
just as much as you
reading my poem and watching the ferns curl
by some green river in the summertime.
mary angela douglas 25 april 2020
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