Valentine

aloft in a tea rose balloon or of teal striped silk

I am the friend of clouds, aren't you?

of winds and I want to shower down

(instead of memorizing imports and exports)

little sweets with caraway seeds

on every country on the pink and green maps

the lavender too we watched unscrolled in school:

a little listless or were we dreaming- even then,

these endless valentines, violet squalls from the Indies...

the ones edged in lace, of intricate design.

with clasped hands. with lilies.

with little doors opening onto doors

forget me not!

and inside, it's silver

or it's ruby.

it's ruby like a heart unopened

even on Christmas.

it's ruby like the soul of her still

turned away and twisted in the cords of

others' flights, never her own;

who must make do with the rainbow shreds so ragbag

on the storybook floor that

drifted far, down a fairy tale snow

from a peerless, prismed gown

that's not for her at the dressmaker's

while in her head, still

carrying the remainder-

leaving home

with not even the pink glow glimpsed by astronauts from space;

just chandeliers of the ultraviolet shade,

one hummingbird's surreptitious sip

of the wavering dewdrop on the

shadow-trellised rose.

oh from our hands, cried penny valentine glad little children,
denizens of some candy hearted land all the pink and the blue

paper doves we'll scatter 

in envelopes of unmarred marigold of the sun never

finished entirely

with shining, here on earth

for the heart, with its fervent wishing

it were otherwise.

mary angela douglas 29 july 2014;29 january 2015