Monograph For Juliet in Rose

the rose-red sash at sunset

at your window

is glazing now with rain

that will not be remembered

by the leaves that rush

from summer's trees in

this bright wind

that will not be remembered by

the birds that fly

enspiralled in the clouds

that will not be remembered

by the moon

that fades so softly in and out

reweaving each pearl drop of light

into the event or its reflection-

into a long-lost caligraphy that

you can't read

into the dream that you will dream

that's not the color you'll intend

when you lean out too far

from any stage devised or

set-piece memorized

for anyone to take hold-

but, for the moment,

glad to be

by every fresh wind blown

and hearing a voice, almost your

own and longing to declaim it-

unscripted as the high rose mind of God-

until small tears begin to show

on the paper lilies held by your bent hands

you want to disappear in the sainted word

you can't pronounce you find

there's nothing you can say when

looking upwards at the stars;

you're reinserted in the slots of

the toy paper balcony next to

the cake with pink roses on it

for the cardboard matinee-

the one where the dolls just sit there-

mary angela douglas 22 june 2011