the cream of words that frothed the rim of
poetry gone by poured into the sleeping village overnight,
the one semicircling the Christmas boughs,
the lowest ones with the last of the icicles flung and shining
unheard in the household the emerald lantern flashed and
clicked the train on its tracks, the ruby eyed
and the blue doves on the trees fluttering arise, arise
and the dolls woke up in their wrappings fluttering their
dolly lashes, the Florida oranges bursting into orangeade
in the kitchen, the steaming coffee made poured into the china cupswith the little rosebuds and the large rolls
decked with cinnamon kingdoms iced themselves.
real blueberries in the muffins, this time just as the blueberries in the summer rhymes when you are counting clouds or stars or islands and fingering your necklaces of
coral of the improvident jade
and have huckleberry pie for dinner followed by cold chicken
and a sudden picnic of pink cake under a pinker sky
raspberry lemonade at the party with the candycorn theme.
all Holidays are one sighed my sister and I telling our favorite story again, and should the Princess sprinkle the sugar
herself on the strawberries?
rolled into a huge Snowball of fun
and flattening the dough with a rainbow gemmed rolling
pin and the little dog laughed behind the rose divan
since that's where the Danish wedding cookies crumbled...
mary angela douglas 24 september 2014-
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem