that is not yours, the snow whirling
in the cherry late skies;
angels surmise, and you could do no better.
now, in the tolling of innumerable bells,
the invisible swells on the oceans of air,
hosts of heaven see us and they know-
clearly the cost of what would have been gathered.
inland now, farther from shore, the farthest-
and safe in a little house,
store your jewels.
no need to burn what could have been burned.
the tides are all outgoing now,
there are no returns.
mary angela douglas 22 july 2016