Saturday, March 07, 2015

At Home With The Queen Of Small Things

teacups painted forget-me-not
wreathed of pink posies sit
on a weathered acorn shelf.

her thoughts brim over
mid such pelf
with pale gold, someone said,

but not too much.

she feels the lightest
 breeze's touch
as if it were a gale.

she sings but it's just
one spoonful of jam
at a time:

then she forgets a word, a stitch
a rhyme

when chipmunks interrupt
and the swallows glittering.
oh in a raindrop's mirror

she adjusts her skirts
of fringed, of maple red
that once were green

that once were green.
(she sings and sings)

because a scrap of
 petticoat is showing
and she is that exact

and wears the world like
a pearl though it feels to her
like a thumbtack

and reads
 over glasses
delicately made
to fit

the titles of short stories
in tiniest manuscripts
she scribbles through a honey drop hour

and publishes
for all the flowers.

mary angela douglas 7 march 2015;rev. 8 march 2015