I did not
imagine the hush of the holly stars.
the crunch
of the white alphabet
newly
fallen from heaven
the
enchanted glass surfaces crackling
after the
ice storms or
the blue-gold
icicled xylophone tears-
near the lavender
eaves.
Oh Damozel…
it’s not
that peripherally dreamed that
in an
ivory wind my soul was gathered,
in hidden
vespers written on a crystal slate
in firm
handwriting with a Christmas fountain pen.
oh why did
you not look back, forgetful child
so used to
hearing the angels sing and making the
emerald
no, the ruby partridges scatter just by moving your arms
as though
they were wings.
or what
made you later than late
when the
golden pear
slipped shadowy
from its branch
in your plain
sight glittering
(it would
have been if you hadn’t dawdled over your cereal
said your
sister)
and before
sifting under
the drifts
of cream you found out were unsugared
unexpectedly.
you could
have scooped up everything then
and
brought it back into the house for Mama,
violet
glaced-
where we
would have been suddenly rich with Forever.
mary
angela douglas 10 november 2012
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