in the country, where one grows old
and the roses shadowing into their dusk
the moon held aloft, a pale green lantern
by whom are these things noted, gardenia soft;
the moon a wide ribbon woven through clouds
consumed for the Soul, that silver moth
it’s the crescent of ending
I behold or you, as you were,
before the floods the candles’
drift on the snowy cakes
the present of it all
in star flecked tissue revealing
you,
on your small porch
looking out on your allotted ocean of time
and the foam of it aqua,
unto the stars, the swing’s wide measure
on the playground dreamed
the dust rising from the shoe scuff of it
the blues and the greens in a whirl
on the carousel colored in; carillions counted,
blossoming pink to white;
the horses raving, frozen as they were
and turning into the Fair remembered
one was fire, singing the milkmaids
in adawn, the faun colored roses
the heart tuned to pearl
and the dew tinged hour
the freshness rose it was ever Easter
rising, sweets in the grass half hidden
the dime witched dial crumbling you thought
was diamond
the Disneyland beckoning,
reckoning,
the childhood tears behind
dried, in the sullen A pinwheel wind
the music box wounding of it, forgo;
the purple rising, the iced tea clinking
of the glass you were drinking the purple of
what is past and that gleams
the gleams of it far behind now
the Star ahead
the may blossom falter of it;
the ones that loved you
when you were new,
the honeysuckle bright of it,
blazing up
renewed, it’s Christmas;
the angels draw nigh;
Hans Andersen, in a sleigh
parting invisible snows.
mary angela douglas 4 may 2019
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