the rose-red sealing wax on the letter's dry now;
the rose red rose white story comes to rest*
like the see-saw on the frozen playground
like the rusted swings still floating in no wind at all.
frost-emulsed are the Christmas windows
and the glorious Holly and the Star
we looked through to see:
the golden bears delivered from their worst selves
on such a cinnamon-sequined day as this.
but I can't tell you the end of the story
or why my cloud-shaped jigsaw piece won't fit
(not even on Christmas morning)
in the thin sky above the little house
swept penny-bright and latched.
I went a long cold way in my scuffed shoes
to fling a milk quartz crackly word into
the moss green pools of
something not remembered but that shone.
don't tell your wishes ever or
they'll not come true
was whispered in my every dream
but I'll tell you the Christmas angels cried:
"Fear Not"-
though years of speaking only underwater
made it hard to see
their real words on the page.
I wished that God would take
the snow-bright word my Mother packed me
(along with her sandwiches of butter and sugar)
into a language angels speak-
mary angela douglas 5 october 2009
*reference to the Grimm's fairytale: "Red Rose White Rose"
