She Tore The Page With The Rose On It Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

tearing the page with the rose on it
on the way home
she cried, I didn't mean to.
somewhere may we build
If we are kind and eat our cereal faster
-(before it colors the milk just like Roualt) -
the world's most perfect playhouse, out of sight-
in a circle of fond trees-
and not only Saturdays
outlined in milky quartz.
we'll sweep the rooms all day
of pine needles-
and eat our honeysuckle off the vine
and sing duets not only at Christmas time;
grass staining our cathedral clothes
while the dog frolics conspirationally, eating snow…
we will not tear the wind
from the trees no matter how high we go
swing sailing, hello clouds- we love you most of all
and God-
and my Grandfather soaking in
the arrowhead sunset just across the street…
so tall with his outdoors cigar-
hello, tree frogs he says and smiles.
Grandmother's diamond weaving
music in the afternoons….
Or the big spoon's Icing.
guard my fairytale now.
I'll bring you gardenias from the side-yard
and almost make you come back…
blissfully overusing the lilac cologne
having no control over the nozzle, yet…
sparklers stir the dark
or is it gummed stars rainbow showered over piano pieces
done?
my mother, far and nearer, than anyone-
I tore the page with the moon on it.
I don't know how.
dimestore paste can't mend it.
who will forgive me now

mary angela douglas 10 may 2012