stop. it's January. you can feel the water slow and turn to ice
even overnight in a pond on the other side of the world.
or know that the rushes froze where no one ever goes
only birds in a respite from no freelanced winter flight.
this is listening then to be this still that you are attuned to
things far distant. as if you were Rilke at the end of
a gold spun tunnel of light.the poet writing, up all night
on the battlements of Time and wonder.
and felt the violin's span
as if it were your heart that bled through music
murmuring to forgotten things.
to wings poised in mid air
on the bluest the incarnational wind
that closes the eyes of the flowers,
and then, your own.
mary angela douglas 15 january 2021
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