Cerulean

pawn a few artifacts, they sneered

we know you've got some

after all these years or get a

job flipping burgers but

she didn't hear.

her eyes were fastened on

cerulean skies, a colour she loved well.

I'll sell the moon

the princess said to herself.

surely it's made of ivory;

my one silver spoon

my empty purse with the rubied clasp

my looking glass, my room

or my last thread of gold.

I'll sell the drifting snows

at least they'll not be second best,

of fine embroidery made.

then God gave rest

for that much praise

through a hard winter and

breathing, from tree to tree

so easily, in the great green parks.

at Liberty.
far from the icy remarks.

mary angela dougla 6 may 2015;16 march 2016