I was walking in the snow
of the past, praying to God
for that kind of infinity.
the snow air was chiming
the feathers of angels drifted;
they quelled my heart
I walked so softly
there were no footprints
you almost held my snow-clad hands
and the moon, dipped
in silver, and the
halo of, the rainbow
of, my thoughts-
were one.
mary angela douglas 4 february 1998
