I Opened The Book Of Dreams And It Was Empty

I opened the book of dreams and it was empty

as if great snows had taken it away

and did you hold in your hands bouquets of

snows and snows

and was all that vanishing

meant for you.

I gaze and gaze

but nothing speaks: they go their ways,

the muted and the sure.

yet starlight was pure

though who of them could say 

of their own provenance ah,

was the book of days inlaid in
dark blue and gold?

I know that this was

though curio cabinet-stashed
oh I really was. and

though these floods remain
above the capsized,
tree-lined,violet aubades

drowned in it all:
old Christmas train-yard,
 valentine-pale, my scissored heart!

still
coveting the singing wave-

turn back, turn back
with Maytimes petaling anew 

to crown you with music

 far from the fictive town.
sheer language never drowned there.

mary angela douglas 6 march 2015;rev.8, 11 march 2015