Thursday, March 09, 2017

Imagination, Memory's Dower

to William Shakespeare this small book of days
and to my mother, Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas

beyond the coast of what is seen
in dreams, in the rustle of pages
in the green of a shadow on

a greener wall, being small
caught in the rain
distracted from pain

have you really witnessed
so many snows as this
you wonder to yourself in bliss

crystaled in the cold or blown
from the petaling trees of april magnified
magnifying a white white glory

have you really existed under the stars

you could not see in the city lights
or borne the flights of others on
your back or tracked beauty itself

have you really can you really
look back on so much gold squandered
and still there is more

the coinage of days

imagination's stored it up for you
in silos of the night
not ill met by moonlight, Titania

not ill met.
with my small border of roses, lilies
flowerets crowned and remembered, yet.

mary angela douglas 9 march 2017