We Wept Jewels

flying over oz we could see the patchwork fields
they shone like jewels
we wept jewels too.

now in the afternoon the bleak clouds scud
the children play in the mud and have no memories.
to me it seems a dream or less than;  one in fragments.

figments.

somewhere in the world there may be evidence.
a rose shard or a lemon one from the kaleidoscope
we hardly turned

a photograph, a wisp of emerald petticoat shining through.
a tip toe shoe.

I leave it up to the collectors and I sigh that

the riddle remains itself.
I put that book up on the shelf
and watch the evening

petal of the moon unfold
though everything else has grown too old
and tatters greet us bought and sold

the best remains unproved
that we wept jewels.
I know is true.

and by myself, without a doubt
living the mystery out

mary angela douglas 8 february 2020