A MINUTE BEFORE HEAVEN I. Decades ago in college I learned that all the water on the earth is the same water that existed aeons ago so that Shakespeare could have bathed or washed his hands in the water I shower in. Nothing new, every raindrop a repeat. In summer we let the sea throw used waves at our faces and bare legs but it’s okay. Even clouds posing in animal or people shapes moving regally in the wind are not originals, copies or copies of copies, diluted versions of real clouds lost long ago. II. I’m wondering if today’s early-summer sky is the same sky that offered me my first blue the day I was born. Is it a used blue I see today or does the sky change its blue regularly like a soiled shirt? Is it the same sky that will attend me the day I die or will a new sky glide in a minute before Heaven, take over with a fresh supply of blue and see me out?
Kathryn de Leon is from Los Angeles, California but has been living in England for ten years. Her poems have appeared in several magazines in the US including Calliope, Aaduna, and Black Fox, and several in the UK including The Blue Nib, Snakeskin, Trouvaille Review, and The High Window where she was the Featured American Poet.