[to Thornton Wilder author of the quintessential American play, Our Town]
how the air shines when you speak
as if it would break into tiny rainbows
of regret that they cannot see you
back for one day, rushing past the sunflowers
in that sweet importunate way in your plaid skirt,
shirtwaist
through the screened porch door.
you stand in your ballet en pointe and shimmering,
unacknowledged; your braids in a coronet
as you say the things you couldn't say before
when you were here because you thought
it would always be this way: you, in your fresh petticoats
and 'forever' the clock would whisper from the hallway
the lilacs sway, and you'd be dressed for school
while the coffee bubbled in the yellow kitchen.
deep violet, the shadows that glitter in the parlour
at the closing of the day.
let your heart be gay:
so loved, so young, so infinite.
remember?
till it's the last scene now
we're closing up shop
says the stage manager,
glancing at his pocket watch
a little misty it must end this soon.
it's time to go; serenely as a star,
resume your place but oh! for just
this little space
you're holding out your arms to us and
wavering a little, recessive in the sunshine-
near the honeysuckle vines...
quavering in your recitative
oh, if only they could
see me this way and understand
still you are filled with our bouquets
like the paintings of Chagall.
but there's a sea between
us, you cry, and your small tide ebbs again
or would be, if we knew-then as now
it was really you
come back for the day
or for just one flowering hour.
mary angela douglas 31 july 2015; 2 january 2024
No comments:
Post a Comment