before I opened the curtains.
I read its branching ways
its unexpected breeze the way
the trees rang out to me
across dim fields
letting the mists come between us easily
and I read the mists themselves
mystified by their music.
then I read: pinkness of skies, like baby roses
and no passerby as if I were on an island here
and everyone disappeared and I could read could read
the beautiful mind of God
it was that clear to me.
mary angela douglas 2 april 2016