Writing Into The Sun We Wept In Gold

writing into the sun we wept in gold
and on the little sticky leaves the first buds
and were we the first to know

our words were going nowhere
beside the toy tracks, only scenery
the moveable bushes, tiny cottages

with the same pale roofs
who wait all day for the trains
to pass to catch the glimmer of the

toy lanterns pure enchantment.
working with the stones the builders cast aside
on our  mini cathedrals colored cellophane stained glass

our lady of the
perpetually closed exhibitions.

here's the latest scene in the play
where the paper bluebirds fly from her hands
in an imaginary wind

without actors, falling asleep under'
no one's snow will we awaken somewhere glistening else

and hear the heartbeats stifled here
in a Heaven of listening?

mary angela douglas 2 january 2015