Having At Last So Many Things To Say

[to la belle au bois dormant (the sleeping beauty in the wood...)]

having at last so many things to say

will she awaken in an unlettered age?

someone has turned the page but oh,

the page is blank as snows.

though clear midsummer's roses

scent the air

as fair as she is, still-

where may she tell the things 

stored up in a hundred years

of dreams.

and where the gold is hid?

though gardens bloom

and founts resume their weeping

in the afternoons

she stares into the Heavens

with a muted heart and knows

by story's end there's no one left 

to take her part or comprehend

where she has been.

the lutes are laid low

with no one left

to string them.

mary angela douglas 2 may 2015