It Was There We Cherished The Memory Of Stars, Peach Melba Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

["what a beautiful earth-turning"

-remark on a sunset by a character from a book I can't remember the title of…(on my Grandmother's shelf) ]

it was there we cherished the memory of stars,
that way station:
carnation crisp, delineated-
in the ice-box next to the lemon ice-box pie;
geranium pink of kindest skies
and all the cooling winds-
apple-pie divided"a la mode"
for summer days ahead…
in almost crepe- de-chine.
"Peach Melba is the best dessert, "she said,
for musicians.
flowers fade last on
the purple sides of hills and
neapolitan ice-cream
still has everything
to recommend it…
I still know the time by the
crimson clock with snowy numerals…
the "Plan Ahead" sign with its cramped last
letter…making the point.
the Psalms in my grandparents' voices;
golden cherubs chiming candle-lit
around the angel-abra…
I hear the ice-cream
bell in fudgesickle-rhymes, running out with my sister;
dark blueberry popsicle wish just granted
in blueberry fading dusk
by my Grandfather's swift-hearted two dimes for us.
His bright amber pennies flung into
the wishing well of the world…
remember the chill chimes of pink and green
watermelon non-pareill; I'm dividing the scent of cut-grass,
cut-glass shining evenly, to be fair
for the future of Light-
split everywhere by those unkind-
and Christmas days jangled
link by link on yellow-gold
charm bracelets-that pink-cake, swirled;
orange pomanders with cloves and other things glistening-
leading up to the one Star's unimpeachable finale,
oh far charm in the sky of
His Nativity-thee cannot wear out faithfulness.
the day wears gauze
embroidered in small rosebuds
tiny bells on the hem
doll mirrors stitched there
I'm only naming
all Your past miracles of sweet design-
so may I ask oh what is time? is it the kaleidoscope you keep
shaking that never breaks down
that it does not fail to launch into further
expositions: candy-apple or cathedral- spun;



the snowflake on a lost pearl mitten
still crystalized, incognito-
where it dropped from your hand-
is it the small rubber ball that rolled
under the furniture when you weren't looking
never found again
not even in the Dog's mouth pried shut as if
by taffy-or is it the shipwrecked
histories of dolls, unchronicled…
the sudden fires and fevers
that took the antique china doll
babies straight into God…at once
and unmistakably-
while the angel cousins looked on...
our reenactments, when we played
is it in pictures on the wall-the remaining souvenirs:
a something eternal showing through;
the malt-frothy clouds in the painting
still may show ever deepening shades of
green-blue, peach, pale yellow-
when the Strawberry wick of afternoons
dissolves like jams on the toast of a sky or
is pink- glassed -momentarily- in the china cabinet
reflected, reflecting-etched, carefully
the yearning rose faces
peering in
of long-ago children
admiring the demitasse teacups endlessly;
beyond sorrow now, if not, Beauty-

mary angela douglas 14=15 march 2012; 28 july 2022; 12 march 2023