Losing The Song With The High Ceiling

losing the song with the high ceiling

it seems I wept in gold

where living among the roses

turned to thorns as

swindlers drained all colors from the sky

and called it better

when bees left the honey sun,

crumbling behind them.

how could the clouds so commandeered

be born at sunset anymore

splashed to a free-born rose

tuned to a flaking ember?

no one knows where to live now.

or who could anchor the flowers,

then

that could not sing; dominions where people

stared at the mire as my quartz pockets,

rainbow-filled turn inside-out to snow

and disappear-

I'm counting the rings on the Tree of Heaven

and not expecting anyone to pity

the least of my sistine tears.

but you won't ever find me

far

from the mauve mauve music so impugned-

I'm holed up in the bailed out of sanctuaries

clutching the eiderdown dream that barely fits:

the tiniest nesting doll in God's pearl-perfect

thumb:

under the rose windows, contemplating

humming little tunes that might seep through

if I knew how.

oh sky.

from all the shadows left to you

and all your frozen chandeliers-

find the one small weeping star

homesick for Light-

and I will follow it-

mary angela douglas 30 june 2011