yesterday on tiptoe you wrote your name in the snows;
on the glass, clouded with the wind's breath,
a Snow Queen's hour.
and thought of the flowers under the snow;
how they would fare, could they be there?
and were unaware of the snowlights
in your face shifting, the roselights
and that later your face would melt
into something closer to stars. for now,
still brimmed with flowers.
your soul spilled over
as if you were in the painting of the Primavera
and every step was gauze to you
you took without consciousness
of it; velvet the days,
you spent at home.
mary angela douglas 10 july 2016