They Are Not The Gateway

when is the last time
you wrote your sister
he sneered through the glass

of the Other Side
but the angel cried,
do not answer.

you have fashioned words into rosebuds,
music into stars, trees into leaves
of emerald for her sake.

make no excuses to the rabble
simply because they know no
other script asleep or awake, than echoing

when is the last time, the time, the time
sneered the mockers gathering
in a winter  clime

she wrote in frost
on a window pane of gold
ah, we are not, not, not

bought or sold.
I said to her in a dream;
to God, near His candle branching stars.

mary angela douglas 23 may 2016