these things may I thank You for as well:
the memory of bells glass choired
the crust on the day like bread
warmed by the sun
the books that lead you
into the magic gardens one by one
yet don't wall you in
the crunch of snow new glazed
the lighthouse beam
through uncertain haze
the cooling drink on high summer days
of blended fruit juice welcoming
and dream fragmented sleep
when each dream is
like letting light in through a star flecked
window shade, twice over light we called it
the stray things in a drawer kept that at odd
times I recollect
and costume jewelry scattered tangled
in a child's own galaxy
(when it falls to the floor imparting secret
radiances from the chalice of a jewel box)
you're getting a little wordy smiled the sun,
the tap of reprimanding rain at the door
and the March winds sweeping down a hill
how I adore
in the fairy tales of the evermore
as translated by Hans Andersen.
and staying home
for any reason at all.
and being comforted
when you feel as small as Alice
tearful beside the garden door,
she cannot breach;
the key strategically high up
on the crystal table she cannot reach.
unless you intervene.
mary angela douglas 16 october 2022;7 august 2023
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