an uncurled fern in a scrapbook of greenery
a globe made of silver tinsel
matching colours
several wastelands
and the yellow flowers
you have forgotten their names
also, the nightingale's story
forever immortal
not the mockery of former friends
not the nightshade waiting in the garden
for the opportune plucking
not the music buried in sand
somewhere an opal wave will uncoil
the tolling of small chimes
the small ballerina of the jewel box
will stop twirling
the books will mourn on the shelves.
mary angela douglas 10 january 2023
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