All This Singing In The Color Red

all this singing in the color red
exorbitant with the flare of trumpets
loud and then louder

timpani.

I fled from rooms the color red.
seeking the solace of the pastel breeze.
the unfeigned marble richly veined

and testing Time ,the white gold

rose of the moon unfolding
the dove of quiet only
restlessly silken, not needing to please

perceived as mist is not; not

to be counted among the numbered
making their splash among the splashers
or the lightning fed. eschewing instead,

the fools gold ratatata of the rococo.
at home in the kitchen drinking cocoa
watching the snowy sweep of the tick and the tock

past the apartment window
through complimentary interstices of venetian blinds
settle the evergreens and the pines
in the winters deep.

mary angela douglas 6 september 2015