THE BOX (FINAL VERSION)

 

In a small box have I hid my heart

as in a half remembered fable.

what kind of box I think I imagine, I dream

curious myself about the curious myself

is it a silver box, a wooden box painted over

or carved in incredible filagree with trees

beside a stream that is forever still, made of blue tiles

is it gilded over at least when the sun peeps through

the venetian blinds to the top of the dresser where perhaps It lies

with a lid of, vaguely, mother of pearl or is it

the most rustic thing in the world

a thing well disguised for holding a heart

that no one might filch it when I am in dreams asleep

and slightly away from the me on earth out traveling oh may it be

a plain box like the plain nightingale that sings

the glory of God though with drab wings

that none may steal its song out of the skies

that freedom of choosing the right thing for the right reason

should always stay in a secret season

how can I describe it

better to leave it locked

where only God can see

the clouds, the light that rove;

the small furled and greening sea

that rises:

in me. And wants to make poetry

to shine imperceptibly through, almost translucently

the yellow green leaves of the trees of that Far Country

we have heard of, though not recently.

mary angela douglas 14 december 2023