I wanted to write a poem about the painting Primavera
about a feeling I have always had since a child
when I was gathering violets in the shade
consoled in the woods by the day in its essence,
my violets I thought, so happily, for I have found them
they will always be, just mine
assigned on this april day and now the april days have fluttered down
the years of april, fleeting
my lost birds, spectacularly rose and lily entwined
all I feel is in the flowered breeze
that blows through Primavera
the dancing graces and grasses in the winds
the play of light on the mysteries
bellissima I whispered in the Arkansas woods
or would have, if I could
and I know, whatever is written about this painting
is a lie or a great misunderstanding
that an innocence is here
how could the world at large give voice to yet
the original Spring flawless and emeraldly vernal
beauty for which Christ died as the poets said
to shadow forth
it is not a lie
it is all the flowers blooming at once
and never dying
so that we never look back anymore
at the great disasters crowned in snows or ash.
and my lost violets near at hand in small nosegays still
there, where the brook must be flowing, and small moss citadels shine.
my Mama singing and singing
most beautiful among them all.
mary angela douglas 20 may 2023
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