All Storms Leading To Oz Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

remember when the school readers used to hold

a suffusion of fairy tales and rocket ships

in one jeweled balance

of the pearl swung day, the day swung up into the clouds

and the day brought golden apples to our doorstep

our doorstep of wine and cream coloured clover;

the fields of stars to the blue cast twilight

our sudden too early yet nostalgias

Christmas onsets, the Easter lilies tolling

turning the page and we learned to speak in preserving amber,

just about everything, and ate honey encrusted toast

and the honeycomb thick in the early mornings

honeycomb thick and fast upon the bread of the past

I can recall, the slate shadows of afternoons at last

and covered wagons crossing a stream that become a flood

the native tunes the bird tracks in the woods,

the parting of ferns

oh everything we learned

that poem about the mud and the yellow rose

and another one all cat shivery

with the red and gold of leaves

and the pumpkin frights, the child in the quilted bed

up late at night

and comforted by shadow puppets on mysterious walls

by the cradle hymns sung lowly

and the wind that is fluted where nobody knows

and called to you in dreams singing to you

of strawberries and the well sewn seam

and little paper cups of ice cream with a wooden spoon

when vanilla tasted so moonbright-velvety

or porch light lamp glow when you were Queen,

attended by the pale frenzy of moths

or the milk glass vase with the garden roses entranced us

beyond all Cause, the tinkling, glass bright of Chopin

on Grandmother's studio piano

and the stories where children ruled and were kind and

even benevolent, and all Time, all Time was lent to us then

new minted for us to spend willy nilly

as though we had centuries to linger here over summer board games

and be silly in birthday party crowns

and most of the time climbing the hills of green

if not, renown

beneath a mulberry sun our laughter full of flowers

won the day and the kite flown stars in vacant lot hours,

all of them, were ours, the heavenly chime of words,

the apple white maytimes, the angels smiling

almost hidden in the pictures.stop motion scene

the birds of night never eating the silver breadcrumbs

the milkweed under that butterfly sun, the heart not torn,

not torn at least, not permanently from its rusty hinge

in the Kingdom Come,

and all storms leading to Oz.

mary angela douglas 18 february 2022