Foolish Questions

Angel with Roses, Middletown Cemetery

—Photo by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

ROSES, LATE SUMMER


—Mary Oliver

What happens


to the leaves after


they turn red and golden and fall


away? What happens

to the singing birds


when they can't sing


any longer? What happens


to their quick wings?

Do you think there is any


personal heaven


for any of us?


Do you think anyone,

the other side of that darkness,


will call to us, meaning us?


Beyond the trees


the foxes keep teaching their children

to live in the valley,

so they never seem to vanish, they are always there


in the blossom of the light


that stands up every morning

in the dark sky.


And over one more set of hills,


along the sea,


the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness

and are giving it back to the world.


If I had another life


I would want to spend it all on some


unstinting happiness.

I would be a fox, or a tree


full of waving branches.


I wouldn't mind being a rose


in a field full of roses.

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.


Reason they have not yet thought of.


Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.


Or any other foolish question.

_____________________

—Medusa, reminding you to check out Medusa's Facebook page for two new photo albums: POETS SHINE AT THE SHINE by Michelle Kunert, and IT'S APPLE TIME! by Katy Brown.