The Soul Near Her Bright Alcove Strayed

the Soul near her bright alcove strayed

unseen by anyone

counting the dawns,

interlocking of children's beads

or rosaries.

or nurseries of pink or blue

where the treasures were stored

before the Wars

she sang without the tune

of familiar things said at the dinner table:

pass the lemon yellow butter, bread as white as

sugar snows while

scraps of tissue paper cloud unwrap the

soft poached sun; it's tremulous pink perfection...

let's open the window of the day:

we're on the brink

she said as if to no one, letting in

the quiet winds that come,

anyway.

have I stayed too long, she wondered

watching the orchard greens turn red the

metronomes tick lead...

my alchemy is gone she said.

but God is still my gold

mary angela douglas 25 may 2014