The Dream Of The Novel

the dream of the novel was to 
have resembled lilac:
fragrant, at the open page

as loved by the children as Springtime.
the dream of the novel
was to have snowed all day on the boulevards

along the shaded ways
making it doubly cold or
to fountain to fountain 

words toward the skies
and then, to cascade downwards-
to be filled with a birthday surprise

or two, an april melange of colours,

intimations so the readers
huddled in the kitchens,
at the failing stoves

would not consider it firewood,
would keep the heart aglow
through the earth's long Winter

of forgetfulness
of the literary climes,
of the inward blossoming of cherry

or of lime...

so it dreamed.
and so it was.

mary angela douglas 20 october 2016