this, and the thimbles scattered
the ones of gold
with the Princess seamstress gone gathering
small mushrooms after the rains
I remember;
we marveled at her marble cake
the bakery made
could she return?
where the traffic stilled
the raspberry sun
upon our childish once upons.
now the moon has gathered
her ivory flowers in:
our Grandmother’s folded fans
will I recognize your shadow in Heaven
so that I do not sln,
missing the cue of “Rumplestiltskin;”
slipping
on polished stairs in a fine gown;
short of the railing
strawberries, cream in an opal dish
oh I wish, I wished, closing my eyes
splashing the angelic.
no one wanted to ruin The Play
to be the one at fault in The Ballet
drawing the curtains;
out of tune with the day, with singing Everywhere.
my thought is a spindle in the wind
it has that quality unwinding
this again and the thimbles scattered
no more patchwork
no more pincushion moon;
valentine saints with the arrows through
she just Was
no more the brightness of thread
which to choose
the where to begin in the musical measure
which riddle to shine
embroidered in time
she never said
when spooning the honeycomb
on our bread.
just God is the Flower that does not fade;
be good, not clever.
in any weather.
you aren’t sugar;you won’t melt.
mary angela douglas 4 may 2019
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