could we help it that we thought
the galaxies should be made of flowers?
and that they should pelt down on us all hours
when you read Rumplestiltskin to us
as though it were fact-
when poetry was Poetry,
the golden intractable and snowy
when we wished it so;
and holly berried, making us merry
as if we were by the fireside
after long and drenching rains;
and Rochester calling Jane, Jane
beyond our suburbs.
and now, draw by the fire again I will
though others think it an ill thing.
let the sleet plie on the roof tops
when we will make a play where the Snow Queen
turns suddenly kind;where April shines into
oblivious glades and breaks into
small rose afterthoughts.
where the buttermilk churned makes it all
turn fine again when we go hunt in the grass
the waxy eggs in their pastel modes;
caught by our own peach sashes on the sticker bush.
and we, we never will grow old, we pledge.
and the half moon smiles.
mary angela douglas 11 april 2016