Knowing At Least

the chic of 'the revolution passes me by;
also, the machinery of state.
in golden tatters I go on

knowing at least, that God will wait

and has seen all this before.
somewhere still I know

what's healing from the vantage of my room
admiring the clouds, their
space and distance, quietude,

their rose their peach effulgence

mends everything;the etudes of Spring.
but the news goes on, wherever it will.
and all the throngs, dreaming a borrowed dream that fails.

and only succeeds in splintering.

I bury my head
in the Song of your wing.

mary angela douglas 7 march 2020;7 march 2021