it is a box of clouds I have opened!
cried Pandora, suddenly grieved who
looked for festive colors, perhaps a something
to wear, threaded with fine gold
a pair of moon bright slippers.
oh, beyond repair, she wept.
and the room grew dim at noon
the bees swarmed all the colours.
oh honeycomb day, return
she prayed; I will be good.
and hope, flew straight:
a fairy thread suspending
the earth like a new pearl
on an old necklace
worn out, as a heart ill-used
and then: turning.
then there was shining.
then there was music
mary angela douglas 6 august 2014