His cast off flowers (cast vividly in the play
cast playfully) they are though men deem them
weeds in the fields near highways
a nuisance in domestic gardens
or by tentative woodland streams that will depart them,
cheerfully suffering but how could you see it that way
when they bend gaily in the winds all their flags fluttering,
not much to look at really.
only children really see them.
and want to run there oh flower filled home;
oh I can see them
flower ships caught, untaught
in the wild grasses tangled, dew spangled
uncomplicated, flourishing
all on their own.
they will not sail but they don't know
that yet while I
want to wave goodbye, a lump in my throat
to the yellow and lavender blur
I may not see again in this world
from my grandparents' pale blue car
with it's new car smell.
and fleetingly I only feel
cannot surmise
I'm from the same wild star you are
and perishable
not one to compose the pale rosebud corsage
or with orchid certainties behind the frosted glass
of the busy floral shops all maytime dream I'm
destined to adorm the beauiful,
reminding them of themselves.
whose wellspring are you?
whose wallpaper murmur
the little houses in between exits.
you won't be that either when a vapid climate spurns you
though you are turning
in buttercup yearning or cornflower brevity
a sunny and an untended eye toward His vast, the
daylight skies;
receiving the seeming randomness of His rains.
you will endure.
how beautiful you are I whisper as a child, sure,
lacelike cream or purple or the gold everywhere streaming
as though through you He couldn't stop gleaming
and though I do not know your names
I know we are relatives all the same, in the world,
everywhere subject to the whims of men
who''ll mow you down wherever you are
unheedful of your scars again and again
new real estate being the dominant trait they see
in the scenes where you're a mass of unrepeatable bloom;
in your bitter fields then, those yields will multiply.
but I in even my smallest hours keep
the memory of your heedless sweep
your secret tears
in the dews of those summered years
revealed when I was still
with my own people.
thinking, we will always be.
mary angela dougas 18 march 2018
cast playfully) they are though men deem them
weeds in the fields near highways
a nuisance in domestic gardens
or by tentative woodland streams that will depart them,
cheerfully suffering but how could you see it that way
when they bend gaily in the winds all their flags fluttering,
not much to look at really.
only children really see them.
and want to run there oh flower filled home;
oh I can see them
flower ships caught, untaught
in the wild grasses tangled, dew spangled
uncomplicated, flourishing
all on their own.
they will not sail but they don't know
that yet while I
want to wave goodbye, a lump in my throat
to the yellow and lavender blur
I may not see again in this world
from my grandparents' pale blue car
with it's new car smell.
and fleetingly I only feel
cannot surmise
I'm from the same wild star you are
and perishable
not one to compose the pale rosebud corsage
or with orchid certainties behind the frosted glass
of the busy floral shops all maytime dream I'm
destined to adorm the beauiful,
reminding them of themselves.
whose wellspring are you?
whose wallpaper murmur
the little houses in between exits.
you won't be that either when a vapid climate spurns you
though you are turning
in buttercup yearning or cornflower brevity
a sunny and an untended eye toward His vast, the
daylight skies;
receiving the seeming randomness of His rains.
you will endure.
how beautiful you are I whisper as a child, sure,
lacelike cream or purple or the gold everywhere streaming
as though through you He couldn't stop gleaming
and though I do not know your names
I know we are relatives all the same, in the world,
everywhere subject to the whims of men
who''ll mow you down wherever you are
unheedful of your scars again and again
new real estate being the dominant trait they see
in the scenes where you're a mass of unrepeatable bloom;
in your bitter fields then, those yields will multiply.
but I in even my smallest hours keep
the memory of your heedless sweep
your secret tears
in the dews of those summered years
revealed when I was still
with my own people.
thinking, we will always be.
mary angela dougas 18 march 2018
