song itself came to the back stairs of the castle
in a drenching rain
like the princess in old fairy stories, refrains
of the tunes we softly used to dream
bringing blossoms to a neglected altar-
tears indistinguishable from rain
and her cloth of gold is frayed
her silken shoes worn.
petal thin she hardly stands
like a wish pebble thrown, alone
half drowned in an ancient fountain.
but her eyes shine candlelit within
like a thousand thousand candelabra
or the night skies branching plum tinged
over a wordless Spring.
mary angela douglas 1 march 2017