Green Ink Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

Lord that I may not squander these Saturday graces

caught in the dream of dreaming only

like faint stars in the spiraling nebulaes

their own motion deferred

these fleeting days like fleeing birds

oh let me net without regret and sighing

let me awake early or late

with all my heart vying to hear

your music of fine beginnings

never thinking of the endings

fountainhead, headwaters shine

and beckon again, this time

though it grows late

winter does not on autumn wait

may I arise

seeking lost beauty my enterprise

and chronicle it all

in small handwriting

green ink upon the strand.

the last wave home.

mary angela douglas 12 november 2022