once more I stand
before the palace wall
my chores half-finished
to hear the nightingale singing
as if it were
the last time at the dim window
and all the little griefs compounded
and the storm clouds
above the Emperor's chamber
turn into fields of
white violets before my eyes.
and there is somehow a liquid
ladder of jewels near the veranda
I could climb to anywhere and
no one could call me back;
then I look down at my
embroidered apron in surprise.
the Emperor hangs onto life,
his every tear worth half-a-kingdom,
and the hidden trill is everywhere now:
it settles slightly in my heart
as if it mattered that a
twig could break.
color washes back into the scene
well-played - down and down the cherry sought
orchards on towards the riverbank of lost delights
beyond-
the fine-edged iridescence
of a small departure only I noticed.
I never heard music like that again
though I lived on:
sifting the snapdragon shadows
on gold-dimmed afternoons;
calling to God when the willow-ware dusk
poured into porcelain skies-
bidding the firefly angels all, goodbye-
mary angela douglas 22 october 2010
