in his later stories
maybe his fingers froze
down to the last candle
cutting out the final patterns
to be sewn
and basted down
and watching the town already
go on without him.
still, there is the sun on the snows
in pink pools as if rose gardens
buried there
almost came up for air
and there is always within him
a sailing green starred moon
even down to a crescent
of her former self
mary angela douglas 19 january 2016
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