beribboned, stand-alone petticoats
in the winter sunshine,
seamless snows, half-stitched in hope
on a day less forlorn-
peek from her garret wardrobe
though she knows, she thinks
she'll never wear them.
even the dress is so far off.
but she imagines it:
a rose confection, done in tulle
or skylark's blue with a faint glimmering
of gold, or handsewn sapphires, reticent pearls?
emerald, set as the stone of the days that follow;
the early springs
are the thoughts of her, embroidered.
and stashed so far that no one finds it yet
her primrose heart, the earliest sign
in the fairytale book of a little girl's first reading
that here on earth, beyond the birthday candle shine-
sheer peerless beauty has been known to sigh,
but not surrender-
in such untwinkling times.
mary angela douglas 26 july 2014
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