[to Dylan Thomas]
green horses neighed for their gold apples.
pink in a twilight never-ending
it was maypole beribboned; peach rose-budded
or all the canals were violet,
the tiny gears still capable of turning
blown by a sigh, a child's silken
puffball of a dream,
a hidden courtyard's
roses blooming in the snows...
I knew.
green horses in a golden courtyard
remembering it like yesterday
that the Princess only laughed
and all the fountains with her.
still intact, my artifact breathed God again
upon the music-box of the world
mary angela douglas 16 september 2013
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