the letter you write
to the end of the world:
let it be painted in
gold
on the eyelash of a
second
or carved in pink
marble
as upon an april
sky;
or in silver pointed
flame,
not ever to die,
in colours of rain,
yet not be washed
away.
or threaded through
Christmas Eve
the first time you
believed on earth,
in tinsel typography
sparkling and sparkling;
collapsing the
parabolas of the soul
when it wept
moonlight, vanishing, remember?
O to resemble the
toy most loved in childhood
with its rainbow
rings so self-contained
or with little bells
attached that someone
may be made merry.
or let it taste like
cherries on pineapple sundaes
especially, if on a
Monday, it becomes necessary
to not show up for
work; let us all shirk then
with the angels the
perfunctory, facing the sea surge,
mystically brave:the last of the strawberrie sugared;
breaking out new
parasols for the occasion
leaving our
antiphons half unfinished or sending it:
the soul, the
letter, the recipe on ahead of us
wrapped in a silken
envelope to sail
above all destined
gales into the
milk pearl galaxies
like the necklace
mama wore once, all blue summer long,
turning to stars
above the lawns of
God.
mary angela douglas
3 september 2016
