the last Christmas train has left the station.
beatitude is drifting with the sun.
all things have gathered flight
for the last poets rising
on a golden wind
now that frost has cut the
moon out of the skies.
and the snow in the heart keeps sifting down
keeps sifting down
all along the kleig-white evenings
where you whispered to yourself
and the First Angel, out of hearing
I am no longer cold.
mary angela douglas 13.14.,19 january 2013
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem