for Marie Foster Douglas Smith
I have seen clouded apple trees in dreams
in idealized paintings pale under moonlight
scene by scene
pink in the flush of the milk skeined skies
not wanting to depart.
my heart my heart its madrigal
of staying weeps and clings to the branches
as if I were those native birds
because I know I am bourne up by those mists
that cloudiness in the marble that is pure azure.
what good can you do to tell me in so many words
I am making this up when I sense they are
beckoning me in orchards of the Unseen
I am meant to pluck, by and by such largesse
you say I waste time dreaming, I should confess
my waywardness
but you lie.
everything is there on the underside of the leaves
and their breathing and all that green
blossoming into white, or cast into a pink shade
is Heaven to me
and whether I sleep or wake
you cannot take it from me.
mary angela dougla 27 july 2019
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