stepping off cliffs under starlight,
taking with you the pocket handkerchiefs
embroidered with cherries.
no one will catch your drift
but the snow drifts sparkling adown.
and the what ifs will turn into flowers slightly frosted.
and the paper dragons will desist.
these things aren't numbered on a list one through ten.
and they can't be on the test
that in your dreams you will confess
to a love of colours
though they urge black and white on you
in the magazines.
you with your fancy corsage of silk lilacs;
the occasional tea rose. your plain collars.
floating off clouds in a pink and blue slumber,
reciting every prayer you have unlearned.
you with poetry to burn
that burns through the lack of innocence in the worlds;
that swirls in the watercolours' water in the glass
and reflects from all the pearls.
you with no past but Christmas.
listen to me.
it isn't by accident you shine by
the waters light.
that an occasional star falls down
to remind you of delight.
listen. it takes a long time not to grieve
that the scarlet leaves come down.
that snow completely disappears
every time you turn around
and nod off into the deeps where music Is.
and embroider all your sleep
being just the friend of God.
mary angela douglas 5 april 2016