Dorothy

the emerald coast at her back,

how would she live, then?
after first welcomes faded.

no more for her the pale green

melon moons would set;

the peridot sparkling

of the little stars

how far is Far

she wondered tunelessly

beside the cornfields in a morning haze

there, where the scarecrows at a loss for words

are lonely for amazement, still.

if I forget...and noons turned into nights

but I am not the same while doing the same chores...

how can they think I am?

boiled ham, the fried eggs never sunny side

and at the table she'll abide or seem to

for a long while yet. no sugar cakes stacked.

still silver (ruby?) shoed after all that and

homesick for the greening world.

mary angela douglas 15 october 2014.12 january 2018