The Heart Folded Under

once we had roots of gold, dreams of gold, light,

peach light, the light of long ago stars 

the clouds in magenta, the sudden flare of meteors, 

autumns, the berries in cream 

the heart folded under the dovelike quilts of childhood.

once we had windows into the panoramic Easter eggs

one rose guarded by one swan and Grandmother played the

record of Peter and the Wolf as a lullaby to somehow let us know

that golden days are few and must be guarded

that the oboe warns

and the wolves are gathering.

I know that she was right in her rose taffeta dress playing Liebestraum

love's dream as if she were dreaming it up right there at her piano

for my  Grandfather listening in the living room

I wonder did this happen, were we really there

what golden age can compare with the least moment the moon sailed slowly

over our brick house. or Telstar, or when the pine trees rained down their pine cones

or gum trees the sweet gum balls

so that we might spray them gold and silver to adorn the Christmas tree

I am woven on the loom of the past not quite Alice through the looking glass

I wander in the world of trains that cannot leave the station

I know that memory is real and fairy tales.

it is the news that is made up now.

mary angela douglas 3 may 2021

Snow Moon Tune

 

for the poet, John Keats

just the sound of it entrances: Snow Moon, in late February

not far from the cusp of Spring we imagine petals falling in profusion from the moon

as we have done in other poems in a contemplative room

snow moon snow moon tipping over like a vase of white iris

I could whisper the litany forever

and imagine a vast cameo in Space

forever eluding definition: that creaminess of light

over the stilled landscape of my dreams

as if I were still fifteen;seeking the moon among the magnolias

I will be lunar too, or cutting paper Words into lace work

to scatter it over the plains from some high altitude

startling lost birds in their too somnolent flight;

enchanted forever with the phrase, most cherished

in some mythological way it chimes on the tongue

like every Once upon...again we come across it that-

that Lantern lit by Whom that cannot be consumed;

so auspiciously named;

the augury of the snowy snow moon.

we resume, all forgotten wonder

as though we could plunder just a smudge of that Silver or

like children their play pretend pirate loot: just scoop

from its ivory bands: without assuming anything,

the quietude of Eternity.

with our proud parents, angels, looking on.

mary angela douglas 28 february 2021