fall into God as into a snowbank,
you will not freeze.
or into april's breeze.
then will we be flowers?
asked the child so hopefully;
and may I be their queen?
may there be clouds of angels
and dessert afterwards?
fruit salad, with all the
gooseberries, palest green, left in!
and the rubied, rubied maraschinos...
and I held all her words most carefully
as though they were music
that could vanish
almost, instantly;
like snows dissolving into seas
while we had cherry tarts
for tea.
mary angela douglas 18 february 2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem