as a child, not thinking, really,
more like gliding in the blues and
the greens of the days
intuiting starlight, shade trees;
the way it feels in the porch swing
in the dusk and the gardenias waft
their white perfume forever.
time was your ocean then
sun flecked or even on a grey day,
sparkle full. and the sound of the piano
sifting through melodic afternoons;
the twilight zone on the black and white tv
or fairytale children's programming.
and time to read the summer books;
to play jacks on the back porch;
to believe fervently: Christmas will come
will bells, will angels, with the flame
that flickers within the heart
so holy, ivory, and so still.
mary angela douglas 14 july 2016