because it wasn't my fate anymore
to wait expectantly for those pink lofty blossoms
near the Tidal Basin
to visit the bookshops, the French Impressionists at the museum
I started to visit the orchards inwardly to weave the cherry blooms
into a corridor of the mind, as if I were a glass dome though which
those petals endlessly sifted, and then the snow
second snow on the snow of monuments
I became obscure. particularly to myself. is it me singing
I wondered anymore or what is it that still trills on.
so that I know still the snowy poems, the petals brushing against
the inner skin. onion skin sensitivities of the soul Spring then from another train. or no trains, only buses, limited service
the memory of a banishment
not that well defined.
was I really ever there as though all we are could be defined by one city
on resumes sometimes people questioned in country oblique ways
you werent really there were you
so that I rattled off all the metro stations to prove it.
yes I was.
I was many places.
I found out , the only root is God.
mary angela douglas 1 april 2021
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