this April branching in an oft trod dream
I seem to catch in the rushing of waters over stone
as I wander on and as the moon
lifts the latch on the house of night.
when in flight though from whom I cannot tell
I cast no magic spell but find in the petals
lifted from the trees a flower light
I know I dreamed before.
how shall I knock at the door of God
all else being starlight and I so poorly shod
when walking is weeping and I cannot tell the way
ahead from the road behind.
these questions border on the attic mind
sorting through silks and odd letters
the scent of brine though there is no sea
no inkling of the me I may have been
or was, parting the grasses on either side
as if I were a wind
still, floating on invisible tides
ruffling the surface honor of things
I cannot, will not name.
mary angela douglas 2 april 2020
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