DRESS CODE (FINAL VERSION)

 

weaving the fabric made of clouds

and of the retreating armies-

I whisper to myself, again-

maybe it's not too late

 

for the new-spun colours in my head-

the cherry velvet ravels swept aside; 

a silver tack of wondering again, 

never setting sail-

 

who lost the Age of Rose? 

 

I count the last gold

in the corners

and count again, sweet

polished cotton dresses with no seams: 

the sprigged details

for the diffident day

on a simple field of honour.

 

not knowing the pearl of minutiae

as You do, oh God-

 

I'm turning this inside out to find You-

and twining the dreamy-treadled thread

that keeps on breaking yet still shines

 

in tiny roseate crystals stitched on snows.

 

piano music's sateen on the wind

and seems to disappear, pure lemon verbena.

but sparkles do not dwindle, lily-of-the-valley mine

though I'm so small and slide off of the bench

never reaching the pedals by the chiffoniere

 

where it's always almost spring; 

you won't disturb

the shawl of dappled roses on the doll crib-

 

the childhood fortitude so pear wept

twig by twig, the same; 

 

remember me, and, if not-

the pale green earrings-

my geranium gown...

 

I turn the diamond spackled key

of an antique conversation: 

who lost the pockets of the

children filled, the little sashes made of

white violet velvet

isles? 

 

mary angela douglas 6-8 november 2011