no one welcomes you
except small birds, rainbows...
the sellers of umbrellas.
after mirages of snows
you're the first to know of and
when angels set their clocks;
the shadows of sundials
the splash of babies in
the round plastic pool
the one with the whales on it.
but you can't stay.
even if you seem to
in whipped cream mounds or whatever it is
they think you're made of
from age to age
the philosophers who look up
once in a while
and the poets.
mary angela douglas 1 april 2015
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