outside the schools of everywhere
I cried:
God opened the book of stars
and I looked up
he opened the book of roses
and I wept, the book of snows
and each, in turn, to me, disclosed
where quarter notes drifted at the
edge of the seas and washed away in
music I breathed in
fond colors stay
like rainbows, melting in a spinning top
on my Grandmother's carpet
just before dinner.
it's the earthenware emblems I know now
and the near-blaze still on spring-fed alphabets
greening the glade where hidden
tigers came to drink
the topaz ripples off the everyday
and my Grandfather sharpened pencils fresh
for the appled school day as if he were
carving marble
oh you who must
in every age deny
the clouded and dreaming child as one deluded
who must be changed or die
with his or her petaled forehead pressed
against cool windowpanes of frost-tinged
faery-novas or cherry coated angels-
I won't tell you why
God opened the buttercup
clavier of the sun
and let me play-
mary angela douglas 22-24 august 2010
*my image is meant to be angels wearing cherry coloured jackets, not cherry coated as in candy. It was hard if not impossible to make this clear in English without a footnote. I would like to find a language where it would be easy to say this, it must have other wonderful things in it, as well.
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