For Virginia Woolf
I gathered fresh gardenias: you were missing
and zinnia periled summers waved me by.
I followed down the path of your demise,
my own breath caught in trees
above the Flood
and pressed my fingertips into
your orchid-backed mirror's
perfect pearl-on-pearl
turning through each
dream-curled edge
into the whorl of
contravening years
and sallow interpreters.
o willow willow war was near
but the kindness of your mind
does not contract; the crisp
carnation rooms are still
your own:
a crystal condensation's flame
on the flung-open window; the
inlaid diaries of quartz
and rain-
all chatelained gestures foregone
for these moonlit cloud-inscriptions
of uncalibrated grace are written
on the evening sky.
sensing your angel's churning wing,
I cried.
o rose geranium stillness
violet sky
against which lemon lovely sounds were
splashing...
your apricot excursion's standing down
oh why
no second snow on snow's appearing,
starred like winter's cotillions,
only warmer...
your garnet constellations
break apart and my heart
falters
losing this kaleidiscope
forever
with no continuance:
the semi-precious laws remain in force.
mere sleeves of her egress remain:
sheer-beaded brocade caught
as the moment, strand by strand
too visibly dissolves.
desert me now, sotto voce,
as your angels melt in music,
gone
then I saw
brightness brightness
every shining phrase unshunned
and drowned in Light
mary angela douglas 30-may-2 june 2009
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