I said to the walls. this is not as dismal
a thing as it may appear to you, reading it
as the walls are buttercup yellow.
a beautiful intensity is passing away I
tried to write the poem to follow the phrase
through music unscrolling, a few flakes of gold
falling off in the air before I could
get it all down. my angels frown.
a beautiful intensity. lost or found, will I recognize
it in the museums? along the way, tree lined or
in the gardens of memory, rose scented, calling me home?
the beautiful intensity lies here read the gravestone
but whose was the grave. in a flash
the gold splash, the gold splash in the bay;
I wonder, I wonder
but cannot say.
mary angela douglas 9 april 2016