always to be the initial snows coming down, delicate,
delicately perceived, the most
pristine of the late april snows, most rare and crowning the pale
pale green tiara-like,
confusing the earth by resembling the Springtide's petals
newly budded forth in the apricot winds
oh the synchronicity that never ends
you turn, with a yearning suddenly
for the white violets
the ephemerality...softly she said, loving the snow words;
thinking them, her own:
first starlight, be woven in and out of sleep
and the ballet blanc
and the childless couple who would you adopt
see the faint flush in your cheeks
when you are dreaming of tearoses, such
dreams accounted for and all the songs you weep
holding your breath lest you give too much evidence
away
in the clouding of mirrors, when the trees sway
to indicate in the laceworks framing of it all
the sting ot the honeybee suns convinced of your
floweriness drift farther away leaving us almost to say
that you were hardly ever even in this realm
mary angela douglas 9 december 2021;1 february 2022;28 march 2023
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