Margarette wrote of Wingéd angels

the brown of her eyes always to the sky. She spoke

of ethereal heights, something no human mind

could grasp. She loved unconditionally her Divine

Perfectionist.

Margarette died like the rest of us,

buried in dirt, six feet down. She had

rejoiced, lately, of her coming

ascension before finding herself

underground.

On Margarette’s grave, I had inscribed

a poem she had written in the back

of her favorite poetry book. It

read:

“I am glad that stars and hills and seas

were part of the Divine Plan,

but I think of all Creation

God’s masterpiece was Man.” –M.C.M

but just a little underneath a side note

for her pious ways, I added a line, its Greek

barley discernable now, the letters just as

short lived as she. It

read:

“ όδόs άνω κάτω μία καΐ ώυτή ”

for her way up was also her way

down.

I went to the library, pulled out a book on Modernist American Poets for a research project. I found that little poem, written in messy scrawl in the back of the book. The name in the front was "Margarette Matthews." I don't know who she was, but my imagination began making up a story for her. This poem is what came out of it. The poem: “I am glad that stars and hills and seas / were part of the Divine Plan, / but I think of all Creation / God’s masterpiece was Man.” is copyright probably about 1950ish to Ms. Matthews, whoever she was.

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