to Lewis Carroll
handing the comfits round
poor Alice cried again
away from the sun drenched page.
the last that I had left she thought
and never cake for tea
tomorrow they'll want my blue hair ribbon too
snipped up in equal parts
for another race round the circle.
(what next? my heart?)
there can't be laurel leaves enough for them.
inside or outside of a dream
and I can't find the perimeter of shining.
why can't we live
glad to be in the sun a little while
eating berries by the river.
leaving the race to someone else
for whom clear moonlight is never enough
the pink-white orchard shine
or unauditioned, all
exuberant birdsong
I ever heard,
and little Christmas bells...
mary angela douglas 1 may 2014
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem