it's in the quality of the falling snows
and I cry from my knees
who is the King of all this delicacy;
how can we know Him?
fingertip pressed to this vanishing;
rose in a forgotten book forgotten
we may be or not be
but is His kingdom far
as star from star in the purple glaze
wise men asked and so I ask again
of evenings when I am aware
the wind stirs from pure regions undisturbed
above the broken body of the world
along the limbs of leafless trees in the park
and something silver shines
over and above our wandering
a something we cannot touch
said our mothers lest
we break it
and no one hear it breaking like a Heart
mary angela douglas 29 june 2014
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem