will I follow you through
someone else's country, marigolds,
wilderness, screen door.
or partake of the cake on the table;
sip dark tea, as if I were Persephone.
I know those words are not for me;
that climate, and the covered well.
forgive my spelling it out for you
that the bird tracks in the snows cannot be traced
to anything living;
the scattered shot of my thoughts that I
do not know not know not know
where the echoes flowed;whose the
birds are, rising; they're flecked with silver-
much less the horizons.
I want to go home where honeysuckle thrives;
the green grass grown remembers me and
the trees so much older, their branches kindlier disclose
the angels hidden in the pictures.
and I will shutter the windows;
will never think again
the livelong night or day
of where I have been
and what language I was
speaking, when I lost my way.
mary angela douglas 17 april 2016