have resembled lilac:
fragrant, at the open page
as loved by the children as Springtime.
the dream of the novel
was to have snowed all day on the boulevards
along the shaded ways
making it doubly cold or
to fountain to fountain
words toward the skies
and then, to cascade downwards-
to be filled with a birthday surprise
or two, an april melange of colours,
intimations so the readers
huddled in the kitchens,
at the failing stoves
would not consider it firewood,
would keep the heart aglow
through the earth's long Winter
of the literary climes,
of the inward blossoming of cherry
or of lime...
so it dreamed.
and so it was.
mary angela douglas 20 october 2016