for the blackberry paths I never wandered down
in all the summers melting my hands
I leave this scrapbook, souvenir
by pale moonlight, Titania
sing the echoes in my head
and the air scented with roses and gardenias
by the fairytale clock tower sings:
the hour is late
is always when
no matter when you wake onstage
for your little bit
the heart can only hold
so much time
and no carriage fairytale spokes
may make up the difference between
the spoken and the Unseen
in all this banishing
no matter how fast they twinkled.
I could have had a pale green sunhat
straw into gold made
filled with blackberries
and later fine cream
to pour over them
one Sunday
but already
the fated winds had shaken
all the flowering trees
evicting us from the rose gardens.
leaving no clues in the clouds.
mary angela douglas 21 may 2023
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