were we the readers of the history of snow
the history of melting
or of letting go
or having that much
farther to go
snow blind, we read on.
and winters acculumated
our faces worn quite through
with all the endless snowing
that we knew
that we trudged through
warming our hands at the fireplace
of the old stories,
the ones where you come in out of the rain
to take your tea and toast
not wanting to leave again
or quiet refreshment from the holy ghost
and somewhere in the castle
in a room you loved the most all tucked away
you find the books that say that said from childhood
what you longed to say
the ones where it is suddenly made plain
that you are reading in the blizzard too
of your own life
and will melt soon
and your true Spring, resume.
mary angela douglas 9 february 2017
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