for the poet, John Keats
just the sound of it entrances: Snow Moon, in late February
not far from the cusp of Spring we imagine petals falling in profusion from the moon
as we have done in other poems in a contemplative room
snow moon snow moon tipping over like a vase of white iris
I could whisper the litany forever
and imagine a vast cameo in Space
forever eluding definition: that creaminess of light
over the stilled landscape of my dreams
as if I were still fifteen;seeking the moon among the magnolias
I will be lunar too, or cutting paper Words into lace work
to scatter it over the plains from some high altitude
startling lost birds in their too somnolent flight;
enchanted forever with the phrase, most cherished
in some mythological way it chimes on the tongue
like every Once upon...again we come across it that-
that Lantern lit by Whom that cannot be consumed;
so auspiciously named;
the augury of the snowy snow moon.
we resume, all forgotten wonder
as though we could plunder just a smudge of that Silver or
like children their play pretend pirate loot: just scoop
from its ivory bands: without assuming anything,
the quietude of Eternity.
with our proud parents, angels, looking on.
mary angela douglas 28 february 2021
