The Soul Near Her Bright Alcove Strayed Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

the Soul near her bright alcove strayed
unseen by anyone
counting the dawns,
interlocking of children's beads

or rosaries.
or nurseries of pink or blue
where the treasures were stored
before the Wars

she sang without the tune
of familiar things said at the dinner table:
pass the lemon yellow butter, bread as white as
sugar snows while
scraps of tissue paper cloud unwrap the

soft poached sun; it's tremulous pink perfection...
let's open the window of the day:
we're on the brink
she said as if to no one, letting in
the quiet winds that come,
anyway.

have I stayed too long, she wondered
watching the orchard greens turn red the
metronomes tick lead...

my alchemy is gone she said.
but God is still my gold

mary angela douglas 25 may 2014