the poem I love chimes out of Time
impossible to be mistaken for something else
small brushstroke before the venerable mountainin a silken
wind,
lifting toward Oz
or it is robin's egg blue,
The Wooden Shoe,
in the sheepfold skies
the child on the violet hill espies;
Giotto's last sigh.
my rose threaded everything
of which I shall not be made
to feel ashamed by any Court on earth.
the conjugation of starriness, illusion justified
I shall love till I die.
a bright thimble in the Grandmother's basket
or ruby red life on Mars with a thunderstruck: why,
it is the cloud's intention to snow
before anyone knows!it is piecework done
a little unfinished but prescience, darling,
with a marvelous unraveling of gold.
it is being stranded without a ticket
and still. going Home.
mary angela douglas 21 january 2022;22 march 2023
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