four o' clock

The stronghold of Deco's golden age,
flowing in aquamarine breath
in imaginary heavens above.
Diamond ringed fingers tip bellhops
buttoned to the chin.
Dripping crystals hang like stalactites
in the cave of luxury.

frescoed maidens. blushing, in flowing lines
like velvet curtains made of muscle and flesh.
Arcs of bronze lean into their beauty
as if to point to impossible symmetry.
mocking our inabilities
with the curve of their smile.
Our perfection lost with tipped over luggage,
and tennis shoes.
plastic bags hang like chains about our wrists
keeping us bound to an economy
more powerful than gravity.

Alstromeria adore day lillies in a sphere of balance
like a sun rising in the west.
All are too busy to notice
that the flowers are
the color of the flaxen haired angels
who gather to listen from the walls.
to hear the one who who dares to soar
as she tinkles her way across the keys
with the voice of spring rain.

For Natalie
written on an envelope today