birds will fall out of the sky
not the birds of fable
the earth will become unstable
also the stars
so that you won't know
where you are anymore
unless you're still at work
dirt will become fine gold
so that no household
should be dusted anymore
leaving the children time to play
with the falling stars all Saturday
to bury the birds
with small ceremonies
and flowers.
to breathe wreaths of conversation
into the air for hours
before a new Ice Age descends.
to bicycle everywhere or pretend
to eat raspberry ice
in between meals on a dare.
to know how it feels
to live unanchored and not to care
except I adore you, oh Lord
to gaze at the three scoops of ice cream
in the children's magazine
always mint, pink, and chocolate
on the page opposite the puzzle
you will not get to solve
before your parents come for you
so that you will always wonder
how would it have all turned out?
let it all resolve into the dream of what we were then
before calamities set in
and the world was still sequined
mary angela douglas 10 january 2017 rev. 10 april 2017
