maybe we were written there in a forgotten language
oh my small tribe
time lapsed at some cinema under foreign stars
still guarded by the ardor of God and etched in clay
before the half moon translations set in
with the second or third snows on snow
of the soul's own specific Rosetta Stone.
where did the moonlight all go, wept the child;
into the ferns my ferns?
encryption isn't anything to learn
nor tree ring disasters
filed away
when you are trying to find out what happened
in the realm of things overexplained;
registering, no feeling;
the codes defined.and all aligned,
the ancient sediments.
but we had wings then, circumventing time;
pink linen napkins at the table;
nursery rhymes.
then later, story times embroidered with the Sun;
the garden gardenia clear in the water glass shining.
I have seen the runes strung like pearls on every rung:
on some abacus of the heart in the child's
illustrated encyclopedia.
what wish will you grant me in a cryptic aside
I wasn't lavished with enchantingly
in days of gold and still at home,
I leave you to deride.
you have run every test there is to run.
not even coming near it.
and in no dream language all my own.
or even in
my native tongue will you ever even hear it.
oh heart, my only heart.
mary angela douglas 2 february 2022;9 february 2022;28 march 2023
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