She Tore The Page With The Rose On It

tearing the page with the rose on it

on the way home

she cried, I didn’t mean to.

somewhere may we build

If we are kind and eat our cereal faster

-(before it colors the milk just like Roualt)-

the world’s most perfect playhouse, out of sight-

in  a circle of fond trees-

and not only Saturdays

outlined in milky quartz.

we’ll sweep the rooms all day

of pine needles-

and eat our honeysuckle off the vine

and sing duets not only at Christmas time;

grass staining our cathedral clothes

while the dog frolics conspirationaly, eating snow…

we will not tear the wind

from the trees no matter how high we go

swing sailing, hello clouds- we love you most of all

and God-

and my Grandfather soaking in

the arrowhead sunset just across the street…

so tall with his outdoors cigar-

hello, tree frogs he says and smiles.

Grandmother’s diamond weaving

music in the afternoons….

Or the big spoon’s Icing.

guard my fairytale now.

I’ll bring you gardenias from the side-yard

and almost make you come back…

blissfully overusing the lilac cologne

having no control over the nozzle, yet…

sparklers stir the dark

or is it gummed stars rainbow showered over
 piano pieces done?

my mother, far and nearer, than anyone-

I tore the page with the moon on it.

I don’t know how.

dimestore paste can’t mend it.

who will forgive me now

mary angela douglas 10 may 2012