The Ghost Of My Ghost

I might as well be the ghost of my own ghost
as to reside here sometimes in the snow
I feel I will vanish utterly and be incorporated
in a far away painting of snow, much lauded, and from the
painting I will speak in invisible clouds of words
indistinguishable from snow, painted or otherwise
that add
a something enhanced to the painting
the art critics can never quite put their finger on
glissando, then,
what is it to be born with a gift of words
but
it gets cold coding in this language
speaking in words of glass splintered from the
ice storms. opaline, colder than can be described
to those on the outside of it though I am gladder than
glad they ARE on the outside of it
in warmer climates, greeting their neighbors
decorating their homes
knowing nothing of the nomadic frame of mind
all throughout time
far less, the unrecorded histories of it.

mary angela douglas 26 august 2019