It Was There We Cherished The Memory of Stars

[“what a beautiful earth-turning”

-remark on a sunset by a character from a book I can’t remember the title of…(on my Grandmother’s shelf) ]

it was there we cherished the memory of stars
carnation crisp, delineated-
in the ice-box next to the lemon ice-box pie;

geranium pink of kindest skies

and all the cooling winds-
apple-pie divided

“a la mode”
for summer  days ahead…
in almost crepe- de-chine.

”Peach Melba is the best dessert,”

she said, for musicians.
flowers fade last on
the purple sides of hills and
neapolitan ice-cream*
still has everything
to recommend it…

I still know the time by the
crimson clock with snowy numerals…
the “Plan Ahead” sign with its

cramped last letter…making the point.
the Psalms in my grandparents voices-
golden cherubs chiming candle-lit
around the angel-abra…

I hear the ice-cream
bell in fudgesickle-rhymes, running out with my sister;
dark blueberry popsickle wish just granted
in blueberry dusk
by my Grandfather’s swift-hearted two dimes for us.

His bright amber pennies flung into
the wishing well of the world…

remember the chill chimes of pink and green
watermelon non-pareill

I’m dividing the scent of cut-grass,
cut-glass shining evenly, to be fair
for the future of Light-
split everywhere by those unkind-

and Christmas days jangled
link by link on  yellow-gold
charm bracelets-

that pink-cake, swirled;

orange pomanders with cloves and other things glistening-
leading up to the one Star’s unimpeachable finale,
oh far charm in the sky of
His Nativity-

these cannot wear out faithfulness.
the day wears gauze
embroidered in small rosebuds
tiny bells on the hem
doll mirrors stitched there…

I’m only naming
all Your past miracles of sweet design-
so may I ask oh what is time?

is it the kaleidoscope you keep

shaking that never breaks down
that it does not fail to launch into further
expositions:

candy-apple or cathedral- spun;

the snowflake on your lost pearl mitten
still crystalized, incognito-
where it dropped from your hand

is it the small rubber ball that rolled

under the furniture when you weren’t looking
never found again
not even in the Dog’s mouth pried shut as if
by taffy-

or is it the shipwrecked histories of dolls, unchronicled…
the sudden fires and fevers
a few legalized captivities unprolonged
that took the antique
babies straight into God…at once
and unmistakably-
while the angel cousins looked on...

is it in pictures on the wall-

the remaining souvenirs:

a something eternal showing through;
the malt-frothy clouds in the painting
still may show ever deeper shades of
green-blue, peach,  pale yellow- 

when the Strawberry wick of afternoons  
dissolves like jams on the toast of a sky or
is pink- glassed -momentarily-  in the china cabinet…

reflected, reflecting-

etched, carefully:

the yearning rose faces
leaning in
of long-ago children
admiring the teacups endlessly;
beyond sorrow now

if not, Beauty-

mary angela douglas 14=15 march 2012

*neapolitan ice cream, striped in chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, we smushed it all up in the bowl before it melted and stirred it all up until it was no color at all but tasted like everything delicious all at once (kind of like the toffee, etc. dessert tasting “drink me” bottle Alice drank from the crystal table.)