the pristine prisms shimmering at the windows;
the slow cadence of silence-
the encoding that cannot be raided?
that's music, you explained and were happy, then.
I will stay in the house of childhood and know this
gazing at the self same stars till I die
from being, like them, too crystalline...
and the birthday wish floated over the candles
into a vast sky where it continued snowing Christmases.
now we'll go back to vectors in the schoolrooms,
to the trapezoids, we laughed and turned instead
to poetry, to the somethings left unsaid in Mozart serenades;
to our classical parades,
your Chopin, prismlike, causing the clouds to weep.
and in the summer yard, the pink mimosa flowers
waved to us and it was not so hard to leave;
I swear, it was naught but sleep turned into dreams;
the buzz of the bees at their fuschia rainbows
making purple honey and
the new shoes still in the shoebox with old valentines.
and you will find fresh diamonds in your diamond mines
the frost on the glass
and the charms in the jewelry box at last. and in
party favors wrapped in crepe paper pastels
mind the hidden words that heal;
the tree scarred winter dawns
when the angels stray near the azaleas and enunciate
(as Grandmother told us to)
Be not afraid, Spring isn't so far away.
and the Star God sent standing still and evergreen
above our once upons.
mary angela douglas 3 june 2016