The Beauty Of What Is Difficult

the beauty of what is difficult

flows far beyond our hands 

it bubbles in streams

where there are no fish

no container can contain it

you don't even wish for it

you wouldn't know what to call it

and wishes must have names

to be pinned like butterflies

in a landscape where even

the clouds can't move

oh but it's not on anyone's map

or payroll

but descends like some green dream

dead-center in midwinter

and you, you were so drear

or like snow when you

thought, "swelter"

swift and instantaneous

though you watched for it by

your sad windows long

centuries

unbidden by even

the quickest, dearest knowledge

eluding the heart to the point of

despair

then doubling back the

difficulty of what is beautiful,

the poem, among other things, unsaid.

walking backwards into your new

life you thought with trepidation brighter

and better than before than

any precarious, quicksilver, late-lamented

but do not lament or brace

yourself for really bad news

it's too diamond-flecked it's marigold undimmed

this, ever after forever will be

spliced on a reel

that we're not turning

just this beautiful

just this difficult

my friend

mary angela douglas 24 july 2008