dear Edith Wharton
I loved your ruby red pickle dish
in the novella.
I couldn't get it out of my head.
how beautiful it must have
looked on the linoleum
or on the farmhouse pine planked floor
when it shattered-
as if a pirate broke in suddenly, tripped. and
scattered his treasure into every
fresh-mopped corner
before he got around to burying it
in the squash patch
or deep under the lilac palings
where the chickens wouldn't
get to it
after a hard winter.
and who, I ask you,
is going to sweep all this up
after that awful sled accident
mary angela douglas 5 march 2014
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