it won't make a difference to the stars
if my nebulous name floats among them
scarcely breathed
but how I would like to be at least somehow
written in the margins of the book of God
perhaps in lime crayon, or to be a pink cloud
on His faultless horizon
in the chapter of what unfolds,
when a mysterious rose appears there
and cannot die
even amid the snows of all those pages.
mary angela douglas 5 february 2022
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