This Is

the arc of the story is like a crystal bridge
you would go over if you could
though forlorn angels

tell you gently no.it's no good; sugared over 
but it tastes like poison.
this is not it though it shine like Christmas

this is not the door leading to

another door painted in gold.
this is laid with mines.
this is blueness in the afternoon

the hives in frost.

appearing after rhe long rains,
clouds in their blooming a certain
translucence of the heart

the ozone hint of storms to come
in the coda at last the scent of violets by

the dubious shelter
trees crumpling into the distance

this is I cannot say in words
what happened.
not even to myself.

mary angela douglas 13 february 2020