To The Snow Child Almost Melting From Her Fable

always to be the initial snows coming down, delicate,

pristine of the april snows, most rare and crowning the pale

pale green

confusing the earth by resembling the Springtide's petals

newly budded forth in the apricot winds

oh the synchronicity that never ends

the ephemerality...softly she said, loving the snow words

first starlight, be woven in and out of sleep

and the ballet blanc

and dreams accounted for and all the songs you weep

holding your breath lest you give too much evidence

away

in the clouding of mirrors, when the trees sway

to indicate

that you are even in this realm

mary angela douglas 9 december 2021;1 february 2022