Thread

[to Christ the Lord of Poetry as of all other realms]

my soul I said weeping, we are tensile.
we are threaded with gold
someone has raveled us.

something
that hates moonlight
that halves the waves on the shore

then quarters them
smaller and smaller
plotting to diffuse.

and to deny.

knowing Whom we adore oh my soul
we will only bleed light
and the flowers of light

on the dimming tides are vivid.
when have we calculated
the effect of words on the populace

and schemed and called it dreaming?
my soul. be bright.
rework your broken threads again.

and then.
take flight.

mary angela douglas 8 april 2016