the one made of roses, of snow drifted into roses;
the one of fine blue,
the sky myth, the one turning clouds to silver,
the sea from itself; the fine myth that
can't be disputed because, unheard
it rests in the heart
a mere bird in the bough
and quieted from singing.
in search of the wild myth, the pure
that rang like crystal when it did not sing
that singed nothing and yet burned on
like the touch of snow, of rose, of blue;
the one she knew before;
the one that didn't crucify;
the one of lilies and of the triumph
that goes unheeded:
the purple one in the palm of God
extended as life is
beyond all winters.
as hope is
beyond the final blow.
mary angela douglas 1 may 2016