Rain could not wait to beat you down.
Wind rushed out of turn from the wings.
Colors you barely flew let go and drowned.
To think of the hope you felt last spring.

We were waiting, you know. Oh, yes.
Stood eager to applaud, every eye on the stage
The glory of your costume, we could only guess.
How much red, how much gold, how much sage.

Fantasy even floated us into the cast
In robes gilded too fast not to tear and fade.
A prompter named Frost mouthed Do your best,
As we piled laughing and crying on stage.

Every leaf has a part to play
Knowing it can be cut any day.

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, November 10, 2003