I imagined a winter sky;the silver doves frozen
on the wind drawn twigs
a kind of valentine frost etched, not sent.
glazed over in the glittering day or end of days
I imagined the steps light as feathers in the new snows
barely the porch light on.
just beginning, the blank dawn.
and the unthawed toes in pale slippers
the Japanese blooming housecoat, billowing out
face unseen, slim fingers
retrieving something;perhaps the bottled cream and
the quick returning.
why am I always thinking in parables
when all I want is a warm hearth;
some days, only the pale irises in a vase.
the Holy Ghost.
I should have lived in another time
when flowers still graced the home
benevolent hosts of them
fresh from the gardens
late blooms and sturdy
before the great snows.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2023
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