to think of the vanished cities
the ones of desert mirage
the ones bombed out
in wars we don't remember
the childhood blocks tumbled down,
oil rainbows in the garage
old raincoats, galoshes in the front hall closet
the game pieces lost
in summers, on picnics,
amid the tall grasses.
the beaded frocks, the looking glasses,
the floral printed, fading.
the butterfly broken hands
of the cloisonne clocks, the midnight tokens
of God's grace, remaining.
I think of this in deep winter
or on the cusp of Spring.
is it really possible
they are all gone, the citadels?
the carols about the golden rings
the continents of memory
breaking apart.the myrrh of wings
presented to the Infant King
the wounded heart in the stories
come back to life.the songs the
babies sing in the dark
or it may be, their angels sing
the islands washed over.
the bride and bridegroom adrift on the cake
the coral kingdoms under the sea.
old coupons, no longer redeemable.
the way the world was dreamed
is dreamed, before we awake
the wavering colors in the mirror of the sky
the way they looked to me then, moire, moire,
the gold decked, the beautiful, beckoning.
mary angela douglas 22 december 2016