A Minute Before Heaven – a poem by Kathryn de Leon

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.

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