than the blue and gold of it, the snow of the marbles;
more than searching stone to stone for the
poetic fragments, hoping to piece it all together.
I saw Greece as an alphabet I had yet to learn
and burning with a quiet flame of blue and gold
of ancient rains suddenly ancient no more;
and dazzlingly, mysteriously, no quenching there.
and all the myths an open door and in the golden opening
this, ah, this
no random Spring.
mary angela douglas 22 april 2016