Godmother

maybe she was the one conducting the golden crumbs,

atoms to their orbits to make the exquisite cake

or the rain had drummed so long on the forgettable roof

no one let the wind in so that memory was still warm 

and currant bunned, as freshly baked

and so the dream mirror was smooth enough to reflect all roses

even the roses we would have become forever

for her sake.

now the raisin bread days old from the bakery

will wake up in a dream of more icing

the moon finally turn into lilacs,

the lilacs, into the moon.

and never will there be again

another april like this one

or cinnamon with more consolation on dry unbuttered toast.

mary angela douglas 26 august 2021