The Beautiful Things Linger Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

[to Addie Cheatham White my great grandmother
who always burned the toast; and to my great grandfather (W.R.)
who claimed he liked it best that way]

the beautiful things linger
in the sullen air like
burnt toast with the

remedial honey
when it's only crumbs
reminding you of a feast

that was there.

candles flaring slightly,
uncertainty of the ghost
wearching out

the childhood hours;
the districts of flowers
the beautiful lingers

of what you loved most
on vacated stairways

spiraling into:
a clouded house, another hemisphere of
mists, old lists of things,

that can't be checked off anymore.

go to the store for...
for what you forgot

you will not
you have not
and yet you have

beautiful, the things that linger
everywhere
costing nothing

filling you up
at the filling station of dreams...
you, writing in an old corner

at a pigeon holed desk
and in a green shade.

mary angela douglas 6 march 2016