[to the poets lost in World War I-
and in all the wars]
we guard our words so carefully
like the king's sons in the pear orchards.
the pears are truly golden and therefore someone is stealing them night after dew drenched night.
someone we cannot see with the footfall of violets,
starred, but clouded over. leaving no scars.
oh will we fall asleep again? our wandering asks us.
finding the firebird feathers gone from the yard-
plucked out of the dark?
oh guard my sight from the beautiful plundered I prayed to God when I was younger with the footfall of snow angels girded for the flight over the debris field
where the winds had scattered the cherry teakettles
and the pauses in old conversations-
sparing the shattered heart more shattering
because:
scratching their yellow diamond on yellow diamond-
on the crystal meridians left to them
our poets of the younger series
did not survive
mary angela douglas 26 july 2014
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