sometimes you don't pick up on the little clues
even though you watch the news
the sky darkening in the middle of the day
the tunnel of silence in birdsong
you keep moving right along
engaged in small tasks at home
the washline's out
and it's coated with rime
the bird's won't stay
not even with lime
the leaves have packed their bags at nine
and even the stars.
and you're at home without a car.
here you are then at the adding machine
keeping count of all you had seen
even the fleeting warnings in dreams
the sun peeled like an orange
from way back
the train veering off the blue track
the inside mechanism of the clock
that ticks when it's supposed to tock
and all that you held dear
vanishing up to here,
the last front porch.
and you the formerand you the almost scorched
with nothing left to
compare yourself to.
in a jeweled whirlwind
hidden hidden in God.
mary angela douglas 7 may 2020
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Aloha Mary Angela and Cheers! Lucky you have the front porch! I got to go to the gate to have a smoke! Something bout big city women and cigars... either they love em or they despise em... funny that! IAM gonna 'bounce' your most appealing prose around just a bit... All of the best from this life, to you, and to all of our relations... Michaelw1two