and the very air studded with jewels
beyond any possible illustration,"
she enthused; "and the score, transposed."
and this is my kindest memory;
the one bordered in cherries,
cowslips, the garlands from our backyard.
when will we weave again,I weep,
till weaving's done?
but the woods did not answer.
nor the vacant lot across the street
still filled with pines.
and I walked there collecting pinecones,
the sun a melted ore, so long ago;
when we loved our pine needle carpets
and the way the snows came, then,
verifying Fairyland to us, everytime.
this is a different town now.
I don't want to go, she said
pleading the case with dreams
when no one listened
but her angels:
her piano, keyless, dumb-
as the blue mothed dusks came down.
mary angela douglas 1 june 2016