Why Can't They Tell Me

why can't they tell me the way back
cathedral angels in my dreams
they should know that

but they are seamless
stationed without utterance.
oh I would travel back

with even the slightest map

through the Spring mud
to see the wild violets again
packing only bread and butter

and raspberry jam
on a fairy tale quest in my light slippers
anticipating, once more, a golden ending.

sometimes before daybreak
I am in the old towns

all the houses are there,
the same curtains.
the willow ware pitcher.

Im in the rocking chair with my Grandmother
soothing me with the old tales
and everyone is there.because

it's near Christmas
my sister and me and all the dolls
apple checked and learning music together.

in the metronome's glare

I see the piano in my dream, I left the lid
and then it breaks apart;
ice floes over the dam

the living room table

the melting of my soul
into the irretrievable.

mary angela douglas 2 july 2019