it's riddle opening onto riddle
the tributary, then the sea.
the gold flecks in the apple ridden orchards
it's what that music meant to me
the nocturnes and the barcarolles, the mockingbird
the whippoorwill calls; tilting the blinds to just reveal
the rose threaded skies...
what are you pretending now they ask me in disguise
I can hold my tongue forever
to never answer lies
it's riddle bound within the riddle
lavender lined, inside a dream
that keeps me living where all is dying
under a crystal stream
it's finding and then losing, only to find again
the circle of Light grows ever wider
in the poem that cannot end.
mary angela douglas 26 september 2020
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