Vintage

it is a terrible terrible thing I said weeping to my God
in the snows to take the valentine heart of a person
and fold it, so

and pierce it through sharply with gilded paper arrows

sharpened to a point as though it were a target
but not of love, but not of love I heard the 
snow whispering, the sleet as it hit the corrugated roofs 

of utility buildings nearby while I walked under a sky
neither satin nor pearl
I have fitted my foot for labor and I no longer hear

the cotillions of snow and sleet passing over the world or see
the holly berries tucked into the crevices left by the ice
storms it is a terrible thing to wound the heart even in a madrigal

she sang with the winter storm and vanished 
into the long ago
the vintage winds

mary angela douglas 6 september 2020