But Still Gold

my hearth was swept in the poem

the teakettle branching cinnamon

rasped, an aspirant angel

and boiling, tried to imitate

as if for a joke

the pelting rain on the roof

and so as to make me drowsy

or to mistake me for a fairytale illustration

the moon turned apricot.

this is to be at home in words

of your own choosing

among stenciled cabinets of the Pennsylvania Dutch

where there is no news ever

only the braided rugs.

a simple cot,

Infinity overhead and the constellations fixed.

something to eat made of apples

the ones from old fables,

fallen out of favor.

but still gold.

the stars having flung over me,

their nets of violet.

mary angela douglas 19 october 2021