Thursday, July 13, 2017


some used words like arrows
and some made fresh bouquets
opening onto the Rose

of better days.
and some flew whispers
like paper airplanes

or named the constellations in
a summer sleep
in rains of violets

silver heaped
and some were glad in

crystal sounds December bound
and some could only weep
the weather of words away.

it has come to me in dreams lately
that sounds are formed like a cherry o
by choric children

in the long ago
by poets waking up too slow
and seeing their words depart

like jeweled ships
over the falls
into an embroidered dark

mary angela douglas 13 july 2017