should they be printed on paper as soft as rose petals,
more precious to us they could not have been,
the old stories...
the ones, a kingdom to themselves, appearing
through a dense childhood fraught with angelic light
when in the wood oh child your hair gets
tangled with the moon and dawns cannot come too soon.
there the owl glints, eyes of the rubied stone.
oh but you were never far from home, only
turn the page;
all monsters subside.
and it is you, for certain,
in a carriage of gold,
a bouffant dress to match overlaid with constellations,
catching all the bouquets
you can, turning wintertime
to Spring with a wave of your delicate hand and
bidding adieu to the ghost orchids,
a vagrant servitude,
Forever.
mary angela douglas 23 june 2016
