words flowed from the surface of flowers at night
words dipped out of the sky like birds from flight and sang in
my drean trees
and all the sonorities I heard then
on waking again,
I heard on the winds trembling back
as though they were young again
reliving those green songs
and I may sing them still
and I could, all along
and offer them to the Maker of all things
my ruled paper airplanes flown however erringly,
toward Him alone,
and glancing off the sun and rooted in the stone.
mary angela douglas 12 november 2021;11 april 2023
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