who are we, blown by the winds
ah lacrimosa, the furtive tear in your eye
lucky enough to be alive within view of the
green proximity of trees
to have ready made for us a ceiling inlaid with stars
with clouds the colour of tearose, peacock blue,
the glazing golds the skies of mother of pearl arced over us
young or old
their echoing waters music music of fountains
and hidden trumpets language falling into us counterwise
and meteor showers snows
we to whom the Lord God had brought the perfume of all flowers
the county of everything living the moon in shade
who are we.
with our own own orbiting sometimes elliptical
practical, falling into sinkholes or poetic states of mind
learning to read the cliffs of stone and time, and time spelled backwards
the way that canyons make us feel; Christmas tinsel, orange peel
who are we, neither fern or silt nor free of guilt, bits of mica
and yet all, all of these , the mirrors of all we see we are
born but from where to parachute from our mothers on this thin globe and torn
descended into our luminous lifetimes, subject to anything unforeseen
and nimbus dark realities
clouded over with business concerns the hurts of small children
all we have not earned we have not earned the glint of learning
off in the distance far and silver all we aspire to
paper airplane thrown or flowing
or just in a pear bright moment lucid under the sun
at festival and funeral feeling in the way
wondering wondering how many days left here
the clock of our lives you are turning winding here.
O Lord God. our little kaleidoscopes our myriad fears
oh please. for many more aprils, years
allow us, please, to remain.
mary angela douglas 18 august 2020
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