in the closet, with His peach sunsets
I hid my words.
they were young:
a flourish of pale green leaves.
they couldn't understand yet
the gunfire of simple
conversations.
in the closet with His provisionary
angels far from the alarms
I hid my silences.
they were already
like snow before it falls
on a stony landscape
all that they could ever be
at the beginning of glistening
mary angela douglas 17 august 2014
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