I weave the ladder of what is left
of the green and the pale green
wandering through flowered fields
and the star flowered skies overhead.
it is the long dead poets I read
and what they said
the best that lets me understand that I am younger, then,
than the dark green, the cooler shadows
of April, the winds through the window
chiming the wind chimes.
am I out of time, softly I ask the fairy tales
but, they still-golden,
mary angela douglas 14 may 2016