Lament For Lost Books Lost On Purpose

If I forget to read
between the lines of the butterfly crumbling pages
in the dust-laden corners

faintly may the violets of future springs
reprimand; the baby stars leave off
shining in the land of ploughed under kingdoms

if I refuse the gleam of the wild apple borders
of the suddenly untold told intertwined with gold, with silver,
cerise, elaborate devices,

stories rich and strange that should not cease
oh do not cease to know

knowing that they are mine to know,
but, if so,
may the lute strings in the attics hidden

break my heart

far far is the world from bliss, contemptuous
of this, of these faded valentines with the clasped hands
the pale blue ribbons streaming

from the mouths of doves
then may the small birds fly away
from the rainbow running rills

and may no one till from this anymore
the least of spent languages,
the currencies of dreams.

mary angela douglas 12 march 2015