Etched In The Stone The Weeping Fern Survived Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

[to Tommy Dykeman, childhood friend-
earnestly searching for arrowheads and fossils.
in the vacant lot, on a Sunday afternoon]

etched in the stone the weeping fern survived
to startle the finders who may never find
what it feels like to be green leaves trapped in rock

no longer under tender shade by the violets;
wondering what became of them, the summer
clouds that day

or the lime green mosses where the children played
in their secret homes near the waterfall spume;
or sweeping the forest floor with pine twig brooms,

and rainbow wreahed where the light
came through the trees so sequined glancing,
the girl in cardinal red.

so heavy words professionally said contain
merely the shadows of crystal leaded starlight,
never the stained glass ray straight through the heart

but cut-and dried
and stowed away for the after parties-
igneous permutations of the Rose

colleague to colleague
whispering
the things for which

great prizes are bestowed
in rooms with little air-
while the living transcription,

imprint on the soul
vivid as lightning never caught in a bottle-
lives on unknown and still imbued

and otherwhere,
perhaps, in this-
perhaps, in you.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2014