If Only We Could Name Them

what if as many multicoloured lights
reflected off the snow in various landscapes
depending on the sun and shade

and all prismatic light were emblematic of
the feelings that we cannot name
wreathed in delicacy vanishing

too early as in Monet when he finally
found exactly the painted way into
the banished, plein air pearlike,

the glaze on the parks; pearl like

for the cathedral days

and we behold as through a rainbowed periscope
the moment as it passed in just that shade refracted
of rose, of splintered lime of the muted azures

and inexplicable, the lavenders of summer;
that april, turning back on itself reversing the petaled

light light light

of the fresh breeze on a certain day in the country taking flight
the leaves blurred now and forever
as though in a dream from which we would not

wake if we could choose
our latitudes,
seeking the vocabulary

of all the colours; gemlike, the residues,
if only we could name them.

mary angela douglas 9 january 2020