Spelling The Things That Drift Away Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

spelling the things that drift away
I learned that the
leaves were leaving; there's

iris cold, and then,
the apricot swish of trees
disbanded in a sudden wind

and over again
is the nursery tune
with it's jack-in the box surprise

to the nerves
though it's only you
turning the crank

of a summer afternoon
in watermelon pinks
wondering with your sister:

what will become
of our star census
from the backyard or our

tiny metal kitchenette's
red gingham curtains painted on
showcasing the window's outdoor scene?

(charm subset of The Yard
our Grandfather mows)
when we are really far from here

and the corner snows
of the showering azaleas
and Christmas lights big as tulip bulbs;

you'd be leaning on a folkloric moon
that won't hold up the sky or
longing for the jeweled acoustics

of a song bright angels withheld from you;
oh it seems that way to you now.
we're etching the scratch art sky

thick with colours from
all you dreamed of - then
you were

watching the pasteled wax dripped down
Forever and over the bottle green
so candy thick as if it were

all your birthdays at the same time,
in the pizzeria.
the sparklers, sprinklers, neon nectars fizzing out...

kaleidoscope meshing
this late in the day, they say-
the angels at rest in you

mary angela douglas 4 may 2014