In Our Dresses Of Cream

how can every graduation seem
bathed in the same pearlescent light
all old photographs reveal?

but some on their day ofs remember
as clearly, a feeling with a difference
in the thrilled heart stilled and

shading them in late May
as if in the green afternoon we
had stood there smiling, suddenly immortal,

incapable of speech, having become sheer dream
in our cream dresses.

can anything dim this? can anyone claim
there was not this brink, this chink

in the fortress of Heaven that day that
we gazed through?
unknowingly, it may be.

or perhaps it was Heaven, gazing on us
surreptitiously and drenching us in that Light
as if we were all flowers beyond

our winters now so we thought and backlit as
we suddenly froze, looking up from our
refreshments on the lawns

for just that instant, recognizing it.

mary angela douglas 12 august 2015