The Rising Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

beginning again on the green leafed path

with the dew on the grasses, our diamonds,

or the overhang of orchid clouds

amazed at our looming shadows on the ground

the alphabet,

all the colours!

and telling time out loud;

telling time by what He said:

"I will make all things new."

he said this I think, I feel,

in golden letters.

in the tick of the fairy tale clock,

and I play nocturnes again

on my Grandmother's Steinway piano

observe the irises

take comfort in the demitasse

the way my Grandmother pronounces it,

of hand painted roses, or violets;

on a background of cream. the late strawberries.

the view from the screen door

the sound of near bells

I implore you oh Heavens

for the calendar towel of linen in any year

with the old mill stream;

the songs my mother taught me

in a dream;

the songs without words.

the same cherished pines.

more time to remember

the way that we have come

the rising,

not the setting,

Son.

mary angela douglas 19 may 2019