old records cannot indicate
the way we felt on the fairy tale road
interrupted by wars, lost train tickets
the sudden illness of the baby
the telegram comes while you are in the rose garden
or stacking crates in the warehouse
the kaleidoscope shifts are overwhelming
though still the summer leaves shine silver in the rains.
who can explain life's derailments
how stepping out one day before your house in the manner of Rilke
where all is moonlight is suddenly irreovocably
no longer a possible thing.
the bridge that stood there every day
suddenly washed out by the floods.
mary angela douglas 15 september 2020
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