what can I add to the treasury of beauty
who depend on You for every star
any star, suspended in the quiet web of night
all of them chandeliered together
the secret flights of birds and the silver phases
of light or music, closing without words
how may I add one shade to the deepening skies
in their palettes of splendor sunset or sunrise
on pianoed afternoons
rose tinted, orange or lemon surpised
or filled with angels singing:
snow, He is born.
I am not I, may claim no language at all
torn like a page from a pearl wept notebook and spiraled
ink fed nebulae and negligble and dying
without Your looking glass espying;
neither past nor present daughter
nor the sound of star flecked waters.
mary angela douglas 7 august 2023
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