Dollhouse

     by Mimi Ferraro


Cellar door opens, I stop and stare.   
On miniature hangers, little girl dresses, about 25 or so, ghost clothes line.  From the next 
room, you catch my gaze; just a few outfits for my granddaughter, you say; the recently 
adopted granddaughter.  Down there, in the dollhouse, dresses whisper, lost melodies singsong; 
wild scents escape: fever burst orchid, rush lavender lilac. There, forgotten dreams awake: 
your own bruised childhood curls, ashes, disappears, subterranean light altered by the spun gold 
alchemy of late afternoon.  In pastel skies, rising new moons   waltz    pirouette    circle--
as you smile, ease toward me, brush by, close the door.