I went back to find the golden
age, finding it among
the things you left behind:
your old papers, sausage,
bread and cheese.
the artifacts that fell into
your hands
as if in a fairytale:
a bird on a crystal twig, pink
and blue towers,
a sobbing princess, elaborate
valentines.
a signet ring with no inscription,
strawberries and cream, a
propensity for suddenly appearing,
a beautiful acuity.
silver and gold
I found, rubies
strewn everywhere, a rose-red
flamingo,
slightly out of place-
an iridescence like
snow remembered.
old shoes in the corner
with hidden properties,
Van Gogh's orchards, Cezanne's
reticence, "a cloud
shaped like a piano"*, Chekov's
last spoken word-
the colors of hydrangea,
Dvorak in a newer world,
my soul
mary angela douglas 8 february 2009
*a line from Chekov's Seagull
