for my sister, Sharon F. Douglas
starpoint. seemingly fixed in one place
I cannot address you as Keats could
I'm not that person when I know the stars
are imprint
emblems of a slowly vanishing blueprint,
awash in green comets how could I wish to live
anticipating the end
when I love too much the green of earth
and the May nights
the way that they were then
when every star to my imagination
was a white rose blossoming,
fragrant in the bouquets of Heaven
and I could whisper Endymion
like the thread of silver through the world
of unfinished letters, the aftermirage of saints.
now we are accounted quaint that we love old poetry
more than we dread the news
but I can tell you it may happen again
that the heavens blaze in the sounding board of an intrepid piano
reechoing Schumann
played as if we were only the Song
God, Himself, had waited on.
mary angela douglas 24 may 2023
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