I right my vessel on a sea of words
and every phrase is a mystery
that washes up on a deck of pearl.
how can I know, by morning,
where I will be?
when white capped foam reveals no isles to me,
blessed or otherwise.
still I long by Northern stars to be
informed of what is hidden
in the heart of me
till I arrive:
sorting the green gold waves
from the peach sunrise.
mary angela douglas 17 may 2023
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