Trust Fund

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 4/28/08

A man frets, as generations of others have before him,
About money. Truly, his needs are great.
But, this morning, he sees dark ribbons
Of foliage flowing laterally from ground
To crown around the shade of a barren,
Red-leafed ornamental. The ribbons
Are clustered with roses. If the man visits
A locale only extant in dreams, and there
Discovers the cash that his great-grandfather
Was swindled out of in the old country,
Decades before he was born, and upon
Awakening, is drawn to these roses, is it
Possible that the grandfather’s treasure
Will be found in the weavings and counter-
Weavings of that dark foliage? Is it
Possible that the earth is possessed,
Not only of the wisdom to make dreams
And roses, but also miracle — even
The miracle of delayed, and somewhat displaced justice?
The scent of the roses ribbons through ribbons
With a perfume that is as fresh as this
Present instant, and more primordial
Then all the old worlds of grandfathers.
Truly our needs are great. But our wealth is greater.

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