it's always sad and languorous
in the poems of that country
I can't go there anymore
bouncing like a pink cloud over the devastations
the lack of bread seems like a wedding to me
if there is any sun at all
and one true God to lean upon
there the brittle straw will never be spun to gold
why would I want to grow old there
anyway, I won't be let in
should I say I am sorry the moonlight makes me happy
even behind the clouds
that I treasure a gulp of air more than wine
and still love the moss bright poems
of damask roses and eglantine.
mary angela douglas 20 february 2022
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