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