Teakettle Song For Anna Akhmatova

evening percolates.
and then, the cream of small stars.
I'm in my

imaginary cafe
with one sweet roll left.
savoring the poem

of yet to be
in my kitchenette
where the teakettle frets

and whines
when I get a line wrong;
cherry conspirator,

you need polishing!
but I drift off in dreams, enshrined-
not owned by anyone,

imagining your steam
as reverent clouds
at Easter.

the purples i can't banish.
this holy Time.

mary angela douglas 29 september 2015