after the parade grounds have made their photo finish fade
or Time has unmade them unmade the fringed flowers in the fields
is it then we will yield to you Oh God your golden right of way
under the confetti of our childhood snows the flowers that snow and
petal us profusely as though you were glad we were walking under those branches
on that afternoon
will we look up to recognize in the snowy residues all petaling belongs to you
all blooming all fading away the mystery of what remains
of how music lingers on.
it's coming from You. I know that it is.
and not only because the heralding angels
said so.
mary angela douglas 20 june 2020
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