I will mourn in small bells
the disappearance of clouds.
this will be music
and till an uncertain ground
but wind through
the orchards of dream
my own especial ribbon.
how will I fit in
the puzzle of the day to day
strumming of chords
some might say.
or might not
mind at all
that I see rainbows through
the burned out apertures.
and halos
around each word.
mary angela douglas 26 april 2019
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