the sword in the stone. the jewel in its setting.
a flicker of light they lightly said through a turgid wood.
old legends.
how can I answer when I see it all ablaze:
all Christmas-sequined, rainbowed through the eyelash...
they raze the least attempt at conversation.
and I'm just in the woods picking strawberries, I guess
out of place here.
out of place there.
between two seas:
in love with Circassian shadows, it may be.
it may be light is a stream of jewels
but who can listen? words glisten
and were they for us, deep snows?
how could I tell what you meant by them
who wanted above all things
like a child to float in on clouds of rose
turning into the wind as though it were
a great stage...the meadow lands of dream.
then I read Turgenev for awhile
in a snowy dress, a paler sash.
till someone asked sardonically: aren't you far from home?
go back! through the looking glass!
mary angela douglas 17 october 2014
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