the scent of the carnation in that country,
ringing of bells.
the indigo bells of elaborate welcome,
and the ochre ones for death.
the breath of the carnation.
only the silver child
turns on a dime.
the terraces of night
have their stars.
the dreaming patios
the fireflies in jars
interior saints,
know who you are and
the chapel candles.
and the weary tours.
oh if I could be, endure to be
the scent of the carnation
on foreign winds
at home again
the cinnamon
not for trade.
the windlass of the sun.
the emblem of the wishes made
fronting the grey seas.
the mantilla of snow and
the recent rose not for me
but the rose of fable, yes
the one unfolding of the poem
pale green on the piano,
my weeping serenata
and petal past petal
the lingering afternoon
the trumpets refused
and then, the country of carnation
resuming, first measure,
to exist within.
beyond the aesthetic of elusive towers
of the carnelian,
the segovian, winds.
mary angela douglas 30 april 2018
ringing of bells.
the indigo bells of elaborate welcome,
and the ochre ones for death.
the breath of the carnation.
only the silver child
turns on a dime.
the terraces of night
have their stars.
the dreaming patios
the fireflies in jars
interior saints,
know who you are and
the chapel candles.
and the weary tours.
oh if I could be, endure to be
the scent of the carnation
on foreign winds
at home again
the cinnamon
not for trade.
the windlass of the sun.
the emblem of the wishes made
fronting the grey seas.
the mantilla of snow and
the recent rose not for me
but the rose of fable, yes
the one unfolding of the poem
pale green on the piano,
my weeping serenata
and petal past petal
the lingering afternoon
the trumpets refused
and then, the country of carnation
resuming, first measure,
to exist within.
beyond the aesthetic of elusive towers
of the carnelian,
the segovian, winds.
mary angela douglas 30 april 2018
