To My Mother On The Porch Of Heaven

was she in larkspur, that shade of blue
when the wind was blue
the awning of the house

the color of dusk
then we were thinking it
is nearly autumn, rust,

and the gold no longer brushes the
cream of clover on the lawn.
was she in larkspur, was she

larkspur's soul come back
how could the children answer that
being told not to speak

but the wind speaks you thought
the wind speaks and the pines know it
isn't the wind a child that blows

now soft, now tempestuous
telling all the secrets, knowing them by heart
the art of thinking it is so

tossing the gold of ancient kites
we never see

and though we dream and dream
the fallen stars and the mysteries
all about our feet and silverly;

as though we were royalty.
it is of that lady disappeared
oh mother in the myths we

braid about you, continually
we would all primrose bright
primarily- Sing.

mary angela douglas 27 april 2018