Poem Workshop me week 14 plus

No Escaping Requiem

Now I'm certain I saw the dog, froze up in the blind cord wrapping, perhaps sliding a nervous tail, 
and hiding it behind the girl's cool-ranch covered jeans. The dog sniffed, never digging that the girl 
was sulking. Yet, I noticed, I smelled potato-chip breath lingering over steel mills, My gray hat, blue
from needing a new brim, by that time. You see, this was that winter:

I saw white gloves become stone lilies through honey combed blinded window glow.

There was, no doubt those Rooms To Go blinds, had completely transformed 

my translucent celestial girl's tears into a  porcelain frosted smile. 

The bronzed mirror, behind the window, it was still there. 

It framed her lovely sleeping hair. She went again my golden lock,

perhaps to the basement to find my lost kite.

Another year, before the requiem, before that winter, she was thinking--

Spring, warm windy days, of flying. A girl hopes of lemonade stands,

of honeysuckle shields, of daisies, not picked from earth and given to the father.

That day, leaving the porch, I closed my car door, turned the salty windshield off. 

Inside, all silences were, are, and ever shalt be, between us. 

I whispered these again, 'grant her Abram, Azure's sleep' and 'her lovely hair's peace'.