For Gemma Treeby

Teach us, we said—
she was sitting high up, halfway to heaven—
how to read.
What do you want to know?
An hour of monologue, a poem;
it would take her almost two years.
It was little by little,

as our eyes grew accustomed to the half-dark,
her words flew up:
our lovely little dream—
it was still only a dream.

We each held a candleworth under the skin,
enough light to begin.
We howled like the starving wolves,
in delighted terror.
We felt the exhilaration of the explorer—
Lights! More lights! Words, words, words.
The decade of our loud, possessive yell was the best one, eh?

Everything flowers!
No harsh winds stir here the voluptuous air:
show us a simple step—the waltz—then we try it as the walls begin to
dance.
From the empty house
and seemingly irrevocable hand of History;
for this relief much thanks—
'twas bitter cold.

Tomorrow, we will sit in the hall
because the parlour is so empty and grey-looking—
without its walls lit with orange and yellow
confetti and sky-rockets and feminine

in her gold-mesh dresses and black velvet,
pulling one-hundred-pound rabbits from silver hats...silver pages.

Now, a whole wall is crimson, gold, aglow with books—
words, words are truly alive on the tongue;
We feel the slow stir of words, the slow simmer.

Tolstoy may have educated his peasants,
but you’ve educated us:
where should we have our thanks?
For your feminine gospels, for diving for pearls—
your thoughts remain.
Out of the forest we come with our flowers, signing, together.