The Blossom That Fell From The Poetry Tree

[for Sara Teasdale]

the blossom that fell from the Poetry Tree
I cupped in my hands: was it the colour of snow?
was it pink like promises of roses?

was its centre of a pale, pale green?
how can I answer you, this far from Spring?
it was the mysteries.

it was all colours singing;
it was none; the prism flash;
the new dress sash of velvet.

it was the flaming out of stars

above my head, work left undone
the arrow through the heart
as a school project

edged with paper lace
the ache of missing God
under ivoried moonlight

in a city space
and more than this,

the face of cliffs
october like, the tang of afternoons and
the cold of apples

in their winter dream
the circumvented stream
reappearing where the ice gives way

the hidden, bidden Word
I longed to find day after day.
and say to no one yet.

it was though petal-small,
the whole of May.
what flowers streaked  in violet rains

leant down to pray
in winds that have no names.

mary angela douglas 5 january 2016