dear Lord the way I stood at the window
and dreamed into them:
they had taken this and signed off on it
in the galleries or the sunlight on the green leaf
as I loved it, as it crumbled away.
this is mine, they say but I know it isn't.
I remember feeling that way
and telling no one,
the feelings that well up in me
at beauty's wells. somehow they ferret out;
they sell without compunction
and the plagarism astounds
as if they had torn a page from my soul
on a calendar I had marked in gold
with the very day circled-
and made a reputation for themselves.
mary angela douglas 28 april 2016