stuffed with rubies, perhaps
kaleidoscopes made of rose window shreds
a plaster saint made of snow
perfume of birthday candles
from the long ago (the cake, still fresh
every candy rose, your own)
a new novel by the Brontes.
I don't know!
enough oranges for all the orphanages
instantaneous homes for the oppressed
complete with cherry wood staircases
dresses in the style and just your size
of your favorite dolls
the Washington Mall in cherry blossom bloom
the skies, too, cherry on cherry piled;
another dress in those shades, moire,
green velvet sash-
a drifting feather from Pavlova
like an eyelash from dancing stars
tears in an emerald bottle from the child you are
a pale green tree house (it folds out)
with perfect bookshelves, braced
by the music of Time;
sachet of gardenia and
the summer rain
mary angela douglas 18 june 2014
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