Branches

these are the branches of the hours
the silver, the golden the unlooked for
filled with their glaced fruit

in the nursery sighed for
and the ribboned rose.
these are the branches of the hours

the amethyst skied in the februaries gleamed
and you were quiet then.
like a wall of snow

an icicle tower
and you tried not to know
except the tolling of hours

and these are the bells
not for your instruction
the ones that spell holidays

and the holiness apart
that wound your heart
and this ah finally is the

tree in all its dower
and the end of Time for you then.

and the foliage of when.

mary angela douglas march 28 2017