her hair in the picture was braided with jewels
she quite forgot were there
unconscious in the sunlight of her beauty rare.
this was a real princess, I thought.
and turned the page. and the sun was still out.
and it was the same day
though the jewels were darker somehow
who can say why
old picture books make me cry;
the ones they published
before the Great War
for children
going out the door
and the wind, suddenly coming up
in their faces.
mary angela douglas 8 march 2015
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