to a dry fountain
small birds came to drink
when holes were punched in a daylight sky
and the blue of old plaster flew as if it were the wind.
and an eggshell quiet shattered in a dream
of the whispered sonnets
freezing through the trees
and I said only, I do not lie
to the dry fountain where the small birds came
to drink
in the Park you may remember or not at all.
and a small twig breaks that was already
broken
and nothing scurries through the last leaves
on the ground
where small birds shiver near a glazed stream
or lodge in the holes punched in the sky
and sing through the end of the punches thrown
in delicate aqua or marine
where an eggshell quiet shattered in a dream
of the whispered sonnets freezing through the
trees
and the ghost of Mary Stuart counting all her
beads
and whispering
deliver my blue soul from the cracked marble
of the world
mary angela douglas 31 january 2013
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