[to Lewis Carroll]
handing the comfits round
poor Alice cried again
away from the sun drenched page.
the last that I had left, she thought,
and never cake for tea.
tomorrow they'll want my blue hair ribbons too
snipped up in equal parts, the yellow, the bright green
for another race round the circle.
(what next, my heart.)
there can't be laurel leaves enough for them.
inside or outside of a dream
and I can't find the perimeter of shining.
why can't we live
glad to be in the sun a little while
eating wild strawberries by the riverbank?
leaving the race to someone else
for whom clear moonlight is never enough,
the pink-white orchard shine
or unauditioned, all
exuberant birdsong I have ever heard,
and little Christmas bells...
mary angela douglas 1 may 2014 rev.16 september 2017
