Does it matter whether I get the great teacher to sign my book?
I came to it 30 years too late.
The 75 year old white-haired ingenue,
Struck suddenly under the cape of the pear or apple tree,
Brought up short by the flaming dahlias,
Orange fuchsia in the sun at noon.
Her face frozen in recognition of beauty.
You have to capture it now,
Because we’re all going to die.
She roots in her bag and pulls out a phone to take pictures.
These suffice for memory.
She’ll have color and form to scroll through,
To remind her of beauty.
To remind her of stopping still,
Inside one moment at 1 p.m. on this Friday,
To recall beauty and record it.