beyond it now with the serial numbers of the stars o
I wish we had not tagged everything
and put the spectrums in jars
at school.
maybe the clouds can escape the census,
so I went to warn them.
but they in their fleeciness rose
and gold in the cold outside a
childhood hom: frozen as
they were, fluffed up and chimed
and floated airily away.
never mind, laughed I now that
you have it well in hand in
fleecy land I'll leave you there.
and then I climbed a wandering stair
little knowing that I wouldn't be back
again to catch them ever again
in their summer gladness.
mary angela douglas 15 january 2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem