was she in larkspur, that shade of blue
when the wind was blue
the awning of the house
the color of dusk
then we were thinking it
is really autumn, rust, majolica satin
and the gold no longer brushes the
cream of clover on the lawn, can.
glow over the zinnias anymore
in their spiky and sometime fuschia-
universe;
was she in larkspur, was she
larkspur's soul come back to the recital
how could the children answer that
being told not to speak
in their frail armour.who wanted to say
not finding the right way exactly oh no
the zinnias are in peril
but the wind speaks, you thought,
the wind creaks and the pines know it
just like the playground swings or
when we play too early
the Christmas Firestone records.
isn't the wind a child that blows
now soft, now tempestuous
blind with flowers and
telling all the secrets, knowing them by very heart;
or holiday managing all apart
our art of thinking it is so
the wind, as a fairy princess
no matter what the records show;
tossing the gold of ancient kites
we never see.
and though we dream and dream
the fallen stars and the mysteries
all about our feet and silverly;
as though we were royalty
it is of that lady disappeared
my mama, in the strawberry myths we
braid about you, continually
we would all primrose bright
primarily- Sing.
mary angela douglas 27 april 2018
when the wind was blue
the awning of the house
the color of dusk
then we were thinking it
is really autumn, rust, majolica satin
and the gold no longer brushes the
cream of clover on the lawn, can.
glow over the zinnias anymore
in their spiky and sometime fuschia-
universe;
was she in larkspur, was she
larkspur's soul come back to the recital
how could the children answer that
being told not to speak
in their frail armour.who wanted to say
not finding the right way exactly oh no
the zinnias are in peril
but the wind speaks, you thought,
the wind creaks and the pines know it
just like the playground swings or
when we play too early
the Christmas Firestone records.
isn't the wind a child that blows
now soft, now tempestuous
blind with flowers and
telling all the secrets, knowing them by very heart;
or holiday managing all apart
our art of thinking it is so
the wind, as a fairy princess
no matter what the records show;
tossing the gold of ancient kites
we never see.
and though we dream and dream
the fallen stars and the mysteries
all about our feet and silverly;
as though we were royalty
it is of that lady disappeared
my mama, in the strawberry myths we
braid about you, continually
we would all primrose bright
primarily- Sing.
mary angela douglas 27 april 2018
