Where Things Turn To Gold Of Their Own Accord

I dreamed of forgotten books and cried
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