pity, isoceles you are no Greek play
only an angle on a page I cannot fathom
as easily as I fathom clouds
the sound of my grandfather mowing our lawn
and leaving the clover alone
the mint in the garden
the rose as still the rose.
pity that I cannot understand
the need for theorems
when music is at hand
the blue jay or the mocking birds
heard from our back porch
the tack of silver winds
near summer drone of bees
the soda pop poured, the ease of new magazines
and more than these
the bubble up of Time
when textbooks won't be needed
and all my reading will be the books I choose
and all these angles a mere interlude.
mary angela douglas 25 may 2020
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