so to be rooted in the semblance of dreams, to carry on
that went before, that are here now, that will come after
to be rooted in the still green manifold histories of poetry
to the soul's eye made manifest
that finds even the smallest gleam of God beckoning
to cling to in the nearly fatal storms
to be rooted in what can never be lies
the cry of the heart through ages
the blind eye, not turned
not turned away from beauty
not manipulated into sin
not begging at anyone's door
to be let in
to find the language again
the forgotten words, heraldry of need
brightness of stars
april of trees
there is no duress then
there is no parched throat at the fountain of Song
of High Song, of song remembered in the world wide din
and ridicule, and fear hastening away
at even the first note of His Grace tuning in
to this I dedicate what of my life remains
in the before and after
in the hidden tidings, vouchsafed are the hidden springs
and I have drunk from them
and been made whole.
mary angela douglas 17 march 2023
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