life is strange.
we build on a flood,
thinking ourselves snug
and the whole time, washed away.
time is stranger
meeting ourselves at some beginnings again
or seeming to, all ribbons maypole waving
and there the bridge gives way,
the little sticks.
but we will build again one day;
there where the planets wash gold to green,
to reds and blues like gummed stars
over our pianoforte pieces used to, Shine!
when we played well.
who can tell when?
we'll sigh like the roses
in the flower beds again
when the warmer winds come through;
exult with the backyard larks that
winter's gone forever now, away
while we spy on every hand
each familiar gleam beckoning us,
pretend it’s already here
through our tears fast fading
and learn to say
there in the peachbright morning,
ah, there's Land again, and free.
mary angela douglas 1 september 2016 rev. 12 april 2017
