Emigma

you're the one trying to remember where you came from

with a snowy consciousness;pastel lights filter through

the tiny ones that used to bloom on miniature Christmas trees

of pink or white, their scrubby branches.

and you remember folios of moroccan leather

small poems you could recite by heart

and how you felt when the trees grew their own flowers

in late March;

vaguely you remember small stars coming out

of the woodwork

latches that would not catch

a fairytale thatched cottage.

the rose bower where the heart is worn

pale red by the ensuing years

the fluting songs of birds...oblivious to wars

the purple scars.

pale jade, the colour of the storm.