To The Beautiful City In Waiting

I had brought no silver but the moon
no gold but the sun
I was remiss to everyone

all winter the earth wore white
beyond Labor Day
to whom shall I complain

cried the complaint to the lute
the Madrigal across time
I sang at the doll sized sink

or amid the eglantine in Keats or in
the remnants of the Beautiful City.
I was housed there

but mainly in my mind
anchored in mist
anchored in mist and God

I rose to tell you this
but you, you persisted.
banishing me again.

mary angela douglas 20 september 2018