rose braid trimmed the curtains of the pretend
with its pale green sills and the whippoorwills
her grandfather called in real life echoing
suddenly you are recalled to this world,
supper, and the yellow kitchen
and to reading How and Why
with coloured pictures.
no pencil box of gold could match
the one your grandfather filled
after sharpening each one
in the apple cold each new september
crisp as the plaid sashed dress you wore
and the wave you waved going out the door
to what seem now
truly, the schools out of folklore.
mary angela douglas 3 february 2017