You leave such a trail as you set.
Your golden orb sending all the clouds to flame.
And the blue of sky
against the soft rose pink,
belies that you’ve already made your retreat.
Left the room with ribbons trailing.
Yes, you become most beautiful
as you take your leave,
as a woman might turn
the round of her cheek
to the too frank gaze of a man, smitten
by her lowered lids.
You have such a way of beckoning us forward,
that perhaps you’re simply given
to show us how
when It’s our time,
we won’t necessarily desire to tarry –
but even now
could follow you over the hills.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
December 2020
Living Tree Poetry 