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