each time
someone
dies,
a leaf falls
from a
magnificent
tree in
paradise,
and of the
righteous,
"noor"
remains,
holy light
  maybe-  
matter
takes its
form
in the
silent bare
skies
scarped
by sun
maybe-
happiness
too first
agreed upon
in heaven,
  before it
tumbles
down here
maybe-
wherefore
its always
late,
unlike
sadness,
that we
fashion
and wear-
that comes
so often,
so easy.