[to the child Dylan Thomas refused to mourn and others received into Heaven too soon]]
I saw the red orange orange red suns the blue violets
and the violet blues the green turquoise
and the turquoise greens
and the waxy seas, the sea so singular
and it was a dream that they had all melted
like birthday candles left on the cake too long or
molten butterflies on a skyward spree soft blue or
just bend down and you'll scrape your knee
and call it a strawberry
burned down too quickly anyhow
there's wax on the buttercream the buttercream cake rosettes
and it seems a mistake but it's not and it comes out right
the infinite sum where you tore a hole through the paper
because you erased it so many times and thought
you would get marked down for being so messy
but the crayons arise and they form an arc and you
pass through though to the other side,
then through an arc of flowers,
the next grade up!
though no one's singing London Bridge, the snowy choirs
or ring of roses or tisket and the tasket of the yellow green
the green yellow and we drink limeade stirred in an April shade
so happy we're irradiated in the sudden glow of the crayon
suns all melting together and in the afterglow
we know this is Heaven spelled out in golds and ivories
and you can't muss your dress all made of silk here
or spill your milk and now,
three's nothing left to cry over is it, on the slate?
however far you look it smells like clover
under a backyard honeysukled summer simmer shimmer sun
fling glitter out the window backward
while we're riding away
there's so much I have to tell you
in a someday language
mary angela douglas 21 august 2015;rev. 2 june 2017
little, little ones...
I saw the red orange orange red suns the blue violets
and the violet blues the green turquoise
and the turquoise greens
and the waxy seas, the sea so singular
and it was a dream that they had all melted
like birthday candles left on the cake too long or
molten butterflies on a skyward spree soft blue or
just bend down and you'll scrape your knee
and call it a strawberry
burned down too quickly anyhow
there's wax on the buttercream the buttercream cake rosettes
and it seems a mistake but it's not and it comes out right
the infinite sum where you tore a hole through the paper
because you erased it so many times and thought
you would get marked down for being so messy
but the crayons arise and they form an arc and you
pass through though to the other side,
then through an arc of flowers,
the next grade up!
though no one's singing London Bridge, the snowy choirs
or ring of roses or tisket and the tasket of the yellow green
the green yellow and we drink limeade stirred in an April shade
so happy we're irradiated in the sudden glow of the crayon
suns all melting together and in the afterglow
we know this is Heaven spelled out in golds and ivories
and you can't muss your dress all made of silk here
or spill your milk and now,
three's nothing left to cry over is it, on the slate?
however far you look it smells like clover
under a backyard honeysukled summer simmer shimmer sun
fling glitter out the window backward
while we're riding away
there's so much I have to tell you
in a someday language
mary angela douglas 21 august 2015;rev. 2 june 2017
little, little ones...
