Foam

on the other side of the door,
in a house without a floor
I cried to the reticent air

how can you have no stair
that I some entrance may make
in a dream moss green as a lake

or why does the only key
fall into the skies,
away from me

should I wear violets,
lost at sea, weaving far from memory,
the dress of mermaid foam

who could not call earth, 'home'.

Moire, it was mine,
this shell of Time;
these things that shine

or were...
submerged in a dredge of Pearl-
dissolving world oh world

in the twilight hour
not more than this:
fern music curled

in a little mist;

pine branch, in a milk white
circlet of stones
where the ending has to die alone
rose sessions adjourned

with the fine thing I learned
the flower pot breaks

Forever to make,
that I thy poem
Thee may not forsake.

mary angela douglas 31 march 2019