THEN MUSIC WAS THE ROSE AS ITS OWN MAZE

then music was the rose as its own maze

yet not lost, in shades of paper cut hearts

the primrose bouquet for our mama, the queen

from the little girls

it was the metronome of the skies

and the sudden snow, drifts and earth shifts

in every crayon coloured lullaby

of the rain, crying, and clouds going by

in their ochre and octave septembers, oh goodbye,

while the clock of the rose is winding down

and the cross of the rose is so heavy

and the music vanishes funneled into space

and yet remains like a drift of petals

on your face or

over the darkening sun.

mary angela douglas 20 january 2023