ODE TO A TOY

 

 

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                        Sandpainting in a noisy corner

                                    of my master’s house

                        breathes hope into the failing dream

                                    I saved from the wide, pale sea

            of perished girlhood’s empty and unquiet days,

                        dream of islands out of time,

                        play at Cat’s Cradle, certain dances:

                        piece of string to figure with

                                    in the air,

                        piece of chalk to guide my steps

                                    til the rain,

                        toy kaleidoscope to see with

                                    come what may.

 

 

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                        Substance and color, form and pattern

                                    spoke not of self

                        but of our shared disorder and turned

                                    the ketchup into a rose window.

            Today, the little filings clump themselves as always

                        about the object of regard.

                        (I look, but not at her, not her.)

                        What on earth did the Great Ones do?

                                    Stirred old chaos,

                        and shook til the pieces sorted out.

                                    See, dear stranger,

                        how that which we compose composes

                                    each of us.