weaving the fabric made of clouds
and of the retreating armies-
I whisper to myself, again-
maybe it's not too late
for the new-spun colours in my head-
the cherry velvet ravels swept aside;
a silver tack of wondering again,
never setting sail-
who lost the Age of Rose?
I count the last gold
in the corners
and count again, sweet
polished cotton dresses with no seams:
the sprigged details
for the diffident day
on a simple field of honour.
not knowing the pearl of minutiae
as You do, oh God-
I'm turning this inside out to find You-
and twining the dreamy-treadled thread
that keeps on breaking yet still shines
in tiny roseate crystals stitched on snows.
piano music's sateen on the wind
and seems to disappear, pure lemon verbena.
but sparkles do not dwindle, lily-of-the-valley mine
though I'm so small and slide off of the bench
never reaching the pedals by the chiffoniere
where it's always almost spring;
you won't disturb
the shawl of dappled roses on the doll crib-
the childhood fortitude so pear wept
twig by twig, the same;
remember me, and, if not-
the pale green earrings-
my geranium gown...
I turn the diamond spackled key
of an antique conversation:
who lost the pockets of the
children filled, the little sashes made of
white violet, velvet
isles?
mary angela douglas 6-8 november 2011
