The Map Is A Mist You Have To Know That Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

the map is a mist; you have to know that;
frail as parasol paper could be
in a flood.

she raised flowers in the mud
and was happy;
at home with paper lanterns;

peach ice tea.

are there fractures in these porcelain skies?
I used to wonder
walking in November,

the lake like a toy.
the map is a mist and everywhere the same.
the old names, too.

I cannot find them there
with my torn out page
from the directory of roses.

it's so multifoliate,
the Rose, the way she thought of it
then

no composer could compose it.
and I have only the mists to go by.

mary angela douglas 19 december 2015