Storyteller

did he pluck the crystal apples out of the air
some lost winter day?
who can say.

we can't tell you that, they'll tell you
down at the factories, along the narrow ways
above the frightening gorges

and the sky is gorgeous and it is your flower
or meant to be changing moment by moment, splendidly
but you are paid, if you are paid, by the hour

and never to look at the skies.

and so a life goes by unless you're the one
who tells the stories spinning their gold 
from pure nothing

making a coat so fine and of any time at all,
a wedding. and there stepping out on a downtown curb
is Cinderella in a dress paneled with the sun

in sleeves of silver

and everything else disappears and maybe
for years and years then
at least that's one way of looking at things.

mary angela douglas 12 april 2016