TOURING ANGELS (REPOSTED AND REVISED)

 

[to my Grandmother, Lucy]

fairy tale bread was scattered the
birds did not eat;
the knights of the small hills

were locked in battle-
but here the shire's wind sighs
the songs my mother taught me through

an open screen door-
cornbread and strawberries are whipped creamed and
the diamond spindles cut, as in former days,

the naive princess-
in odd etchings,
beautiful,

as still-

whole kingdoms shine entire...
yet all my towers face the other way
on leafmeal, cooler afternoons

when a gaggle of stars

drifts by and the goose girl
(with her jewels sewn into her seams for
safekeeping)

follows after them in tears...
these are the things I tell myself
when God may be listening for

the shimmering years recounted,

in rosepetaled spelling blown
and every wish as sunbright, honeysuckle clear
as bacon and eggs at home, grape

jelly scraped on toast that
later will seem so
high meringued-miraculous indeed

or blue jay sapphire strung
from tree to tree

exquisitely hinged as a raspberry summer could be
suddenly frozen ruby solid
overnight-

oh guard with your eyes the scarlet
poinsettia on the piano from unstoried vandals-
the scarlet music

wrap it in golden foil
like a color you can use again
if you need to.

you will need to
you will need your
dream cottonwool wadded

in a silver keepsake box
in the back of the third
dresser drawer-

the crystal perfume stopper
and the opal-inlaid screen
of your best mind

on the day that touring angels
just drop by
unscrolling the fairy tale screed

you can't ignore.
oh step from the doorstep looking back
at what you cannot find

anymore-

you who knew daily how the best
of stories must begin,
will know it then,

forever

mary angela douglas 17 june 2011;rev. 20 june 2017