those who cannot accept the spun honey gold of light
filtering as it is
through loved trees
must have no peace in themselves
who must leave critical reviews of Light itself
most certainly, of God Himself;
of water, the very shale of earth
why must you be so sere
depriving us of mirth, officious copy in hand
I say to all reviewers out of hand
from a quiet moment of grief
that all the imagination may be
if only you would let it go to seed
and to wildflowers
why must you quibble over leaf and leaf
and then the leaves falling and the hunching down of winds
and then the eternal raking settles in
of your opinions on it all.
leave song be!
stop putting it through the tribulations
and roaring at it in its need to be distant
and the North Star to whoever wants it to be.
in
quiet perusal of starlight, shadows;
we shall breathe in beautiful annunciations
unencumbered without you, deliciously
appled the poetry tree; what poets feel:
the hum that settles in the soul
going about other things
when a poem begins to dream itself
into roots and branches
is not and shall never be
your provenance
except in tears;
the mirages of former years.
and though you may disbelieve in it, still
the undimmed music of the spheres.
mary angela douglas 13 august 2023
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