This Is The Map They Draw For You When You Are Far From Home

this is the map they draw for you

when you are far from home;

pretending that they know

much better than you

the crisp, bright elevations of

the hills you've climbed;

each distinct blade of grass;

the mountain passes you crawled through.

each point of interest they revise:

how the clouds unfold

and the scent of rains

sweeping over the plains

and the green plateaus

where sorrows leveled off.

they will expound and

pound the lecturn

where the vast crowds come

to hear them prattle on.

but you.

but you

moved through it all;

the midnight squalls,

the last minute departures.

and hold your own

the trapdoor latched; the calico curtains closed

in the cellar of your soul:

the prairie and the prairie rose;

the little that sustained;

midwinter's vacant sun

above the matchless snows.

and all that's left behind's

a secret cherished oh,

the portals of your soul.

and you'll remain (because

God willed it so),

the Keeper of it all.

mary angela douglas 5 may 2015;16 march 2016