[to the Russian Poets: past, present and future with deep hope and gratitude-and, most directly to the poets of the Silver Age]
a silver branch is broken from
a golden tree.
in the upper atmosphere
are many angels
and clouds of shimmering
radiant symbols.
if it were colder it would be
snowing angels
and Christmas could come early.
but you lose your way in
the fairytale forest
forgetting to be
on your guard-
plucking a rose in the
fatal hour-
turning to stone.
all blazing kingdoms
corroborate:
the same victory on the same day.
and there is world-wide entertainment
and sherbet in 10,000 flavors.
but the milk-white sky pours out
pitchers of sorrow;
the sun on its own bakes
bitter loaves.
and like children unjustly punished
we can't stop weeping for
the silver branch
cut from the golden tree-
mary angela douglas 13 june 2005/30 august 2005/copyright 2006
