so let one diamond scarab constellation lie
gathering the evening into pale indigo folds
and we will recount old stories out of those long agos
from Schirmer's library in red and gold
or bid the long cherished music rise
as if, composed on the instant.
in every piano now I hear the one
most customary Steinway in my Grandmother's home
sweeter to me those notes than as Scripture imparts,
the honeycomb
or any that clashed in Beethoven like storms
dazzling the birds into extravagancies of birdsong
or in the gushing streaming of rain down the drainpipes and into the
suburban lanes that I remember too. and all that ethereal blue
of Little Rock's sky written views
as Stevenson said "oh home no longer home to me
whither will I wander..." from you
now that that piano has set like an ebony sun
the lid closed down in plum eclipse; sheet music shuttled away;
the glass bright sounds surely having drifted so much farther into
Space
than when we were children not knowing how time could run;
mystified;learning about grace notes.
serenades;the occasional tarantella
in rose flame taffeta
my Grandmother smoothing the dream chords
of her Liebestraum...long into the late afternoons.
the may flowering early moons of the Spinning Songs of aspiring
pupils have spun their irremediable gold
oh lovely music;that cannot be resumed.
I hold to you and will not let you go.
mary angela douglas 26, 27 august 2021
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