snow clouded through the afternoons
you pick at the silver threads of an old dress,
the crystals come off in your hands
and the wind murmurs: Princess
you thought you were;
such intricate beadwork
said the shadow brides in the recital
and I can't decide
if the crowns they wear
coming down the stairs
were made of orange blossoms
or Ophelia's weeds.
can you play it from memory
gently my Grandmother asked.
such detailed work, they said;
look at the stitching...
the tinge of blue overlaying the pink
yet never becoming violet.
then the lamplight dimmed...
now the lemon sun drops out
what child is left in the rosied ring
to corroborate my dream my dream
what countries should I sing
who have all the notes at hand
and the feeling besides, from birth
to think of God in the intervals.
farther away is nearer say the brides
in a language that seemed silver
seeking the veneer
at least, to someone else they
thought I might be clear
as the way you wave to strangers
on the street thinking you recognize them
till they turn aside.
in a dream I turned to say
to you I don't know what it means
but does this make sense,
can you understand?
is it, the headwaters of God
the bright falls raining down
into small rainbows?
foaming clouds trailing off
like veils into the rocks...
though I knew it was.
you looked straight through
as if it could not matter to you
one way or the other
and I thought
you are scarcely my brother.
I have to go on
to find the beginning of the song
though you think me absurd;
perhaps a little lacelike in the offing
even while my words, my words!
fall into the brink sad opals
and over the roaring of mists,
cannot be heard.
mary angela douglas 2, 3 december 2017
you pick at the silver threads of an old dress,
the crystals come off in your hands
and the wind murmurs: Princess
you thought you were;
such intricate beadwork
said the shadow brides in the recital
and I can't decide
if the crowns they wear
coming down the stairs
were made of orange blossoms
or Ophelia's weeds.
can you play it from memory
gently my Grandmother asked.
such detailed work, they said;
look at the stitching...
the tinge of blue overlaying the pink
yet never becoming violet.
then the lamplight dimmed...
now the lemon sun drops out
what child is left in the rosied ring
to corroborate my dream my dream
what countries should I sing
who have all the notes at hand
and the feeling besides, from birth
to think of God in the intervals.
farther away is nearer say the brides
in a language that seemed silver
seeking the veneer
at least, to someone else they
thought I might be clear
as the way you wave to strangers
on the street thinking you recognize them
till they turn aside.
in a dream I turned to say
to you I don't know what it means
but does this make sense,
can you understand?
is it, the headwaters of God
the bright falls raining down
into small rainbows?
foaming clouds trailing off
like veils into the rocks...
though I knew it was.
you looked straight through
as if it could not matter to you
one way or the other
and I thought
you are scarcely my brother.
I have to go on
to find the beginning of the song
though you think me absurd;
perhaps a little lacelike in the offing
even while my words, my words!
fall into the brink sad opals
and over the roaring of mists,
cannot be heard.
mary angela douglas 2, 3 december 2017
