that I could not carry them they slipped through
and none to help
and I awoke looking to see
some evidence of a way to find them awake
alas, there was none
but me to know how tangibly they shone
how near at hand in my dream land
breaking apart so naturally
like clouds on an overcast day,
or my sister's arpeggios in the long ago.
all this was where? I hear sad scoffers say
and I reply if I may
where things turn to gold of their own accord
and not, this striving after, this continual competition
for the cracker jack prize
it just occurs without your thinking, you know,
like light on the waves, or on september days
the lemoning of leaves
and there you are.
the books were shining too.
the ones I couldn't rescue
the ones you never knew.
mary angela douglas 24 october 2016