(to my Grandmother Lucy W. Young
and my very musical sister, Sharon...
and to Gramp, the best Gramp, Milton B.("Mutt" Young)
we may have planned to connect the dots in workbooks
or in purple mimeograph watching them become
flowers, leaves, constellations the dolls never heard of
this would be additional work but we were happy to do it
knowing it must lead us somewhere different
than we were before
outward from the penciled labyrinths
the simple crosswords, riddles just for fun
spelled out in languid Saturdays after chores were done
and mystical movies,that Hershey Bar
popcorn freedom,
trifling with sets and subsets off and on
clearly without the nets of the lady in strawberry pink
circus tutus using the sun
as a reference point, the northward moss on trees
calculating these: parabola, parasol, what you please by
sunset, moonrise gifts of the numbers, One in gold
meaning prime but we're in the after time
of school where the sundial rules the shade
with the metronome at home
and music runs on in the piano studio
twirling the stool
because Grandmother's pupils are diligent
and love their Mendelssohn.
counting the threads on the vivid spools
we occupy ourselves with her sewing basket
the tiny gold thimble tisket or tasket,
and we are the thieves of the golden eggs she says
when she is vexed
scolding us through fairy tales so that beauty
is never a wasted opportunity nor
the stairs from note to note she taught us
that we will use long after she's gone
when they have wounded our once upons
hearing that music still, not missing
the northward moss on trees
on and on
connecting the dots from star to star
and not that far from it now:
from finishing off the last spinning wheel
in the last castle
thereby saving the Princess,
the Kingdom of whole notes replete with
beauty cascading everywhere
through the grace notes too
a few of them sostenuto,
sustaining
the worlds we knew then
that still are new and
back to back and sidewalk crack to crack
with the narrow passage through
rose garden to Rose Garden.
when we're through
we'll bring her back the best bouquet
the intricate piece done well and
marked with a golden star, the memory
of who we are at the core Whose Music is
leaving us, somewhere different
fording the rivers of dream-
than we were before.
mary angela douglas 12 january 2019;rev. 13 january 2019
and my very musical sister, Sharon...
and to Gramp, the best Gramp, Milton B.("Mutt" Young)
we may have planned to connect the dots in workbooks
or in purple mimeograph watching them become
flowers, leaves, constellations the dolls never heard of
this would be additional work but we were happy to do it
knowing it must lead us somewhere different
than we were before
outward from the penciled labyrinths
the simple crosswords, riddles just for fun
spelled out in languid Saturdays after chores were done
and mystical movies,that Hershey Bar
popcorn freedom,
trifling with sets and subsets off and on
clearly without the nets of the lady in strawberry pink
circus tutus using the sun
as a reference point, the northward moss on trees
calculating these: parabola, parasol, what you please by
sunset, moonrise gifts of the numbers, One in gold
meaning prime but we're in the after time
of school where the sundial rules the shade
with the metronome at home
and music runs on in the piano studio
twirling the stool
because Grandmother's pupils are diligent
and love their Mendelssohn.
counting the threads on the vivid spools
we occupy ourselves with her sewing basket
the tiny gold thimble tisket or tasket,
and we are the thieves of the golden eggs she says
when she is vexed
scolding us through fairy tales so that beauty
is never a wasted opportunity nor
the stairs from note to note she taught us
that we will use long after she's gone
when they have wounded our once upons
hearing that music still, not missing
the northward moss on trees
on and on
connecting the dots from star to star
and not that far from it now:
from finishing off the last spinning wheel
in the last castle
thereby saving the Princess,
the Kingdom of whole notes replete with
beauty cascading everywhere
through the grace notes too
a few of them sostenuto,
sustaining
the worlds we knew then
that still are new and
back to back and sidewalk crack to crack
with the narrow passage through
rose garden to Rose Garden.
when we're through
we'll bring her back the best bouquet
the intricate piece done well and
marked with a golden star, the memory
of who we are at the core Whose Music is
leaving us, somewhere different
fording the rivers of dream-
than we were before.
mary angela douglas 12 january 2019;rev. 13 january 2019
