No One Will Know Now How You Looked At Clouds

no one will know now how you looked at clouds
when they turned pink; how you could sink
into books as into your own dream.

how the newest green of trees was all of
Spring to you (not counting the roses.)
how you found violets early on

without anyone telling you to.
and if they knew, what would they do
with such knowledge

but turn from you or gossip or construe...
even that would make no difference.
toward all perspicacity you were like

a lake that seemed to hold the moon of your own soul
asleep or awake there but really,
some kind of fairytale conspiracy

that kept from view

the still invisible you
elsewhere
floating above sheer cruelty

so infinitely.

mary angela douglas 13 february 2016