Since the rain is falling

The world is smaller when it rains.
The sky, capped and sealed by gray
closes in, shortening your vision,
blurring your focus, making it seem
as though this rain is all there is.

Yet, it seems each crystal drop of rain
carries secret color.

And I imagine
a small crew of painters, departing
each drop as it lands,
dressed in brilliantly colored overalls
which match the color they will spread.

Thousands of painters ply green to the grass
and titanium white to the snowdrops.
Small accents of lavender are dotted
on the emerging hyacinth.

They come in waves,
so small
and moving so fast
that you cannot even see their work
until the Sun returns
and you stand slack jawed
and wide eyed
and wonder
when did Spring arrive.

It's Hard to Keep Them All Happy

Facing the daunting challenge
of coloring the crayons,
I grab fistfuls of maple leaves,
separating the Burnt Orange
from the Burnt Sienna
I find just enough Outrageous Orange
to intensify the Neon Carrot.
Fastidious Fuchsia
refuses my offer of Chestnut
which she needs for her to become Copper,
so I offer it to Magenta
who accepts it along with my offer of Mahogany
but he also demands the  Goldenrod
I'm saving for Inchworm.
Disheartened,
I grab Cadet Blue
from the morning drizzle
and head out for coffee.



* Thanks to Wikipedia for this amazing list of colors.

The Cinnamon Room

We painted the wall
in cinnamon

to accent the warmth

of our home.

Then added coffee 

colored carpet,

for comfort

no matter the season.

Orange cheddar cheese soup

gurgles on the stove top

sending scents

of beauty throughout.

White snows

finally

cascade down

forcing us from our sloth.

Warm bellies

wrapped in warm clothes

we play until cheeks

glow rose.

Then return to the cinnamon room

for cocoa

and blankets

and popped corn

then closed eyes

and bedtime

and dreams.

What is this daytime you speak of

Morning
distinguishes itself from night
only in the quantity
of gray light it provides.
The rain still falls,
pulling color from life
as it washes down.
School buses splash by,
no longer yellow
but drifting in to
goldenrod
on their way down spectrum.
The color white
is only an abstract idea,
a Platonic ideal,
that exists
only in a perfect world
where perfect rain
reflects
perfect sun
and warms
souls.

Like a Sunrise

I am eating color for breakfast.
Ripe yellow and blood orange.
Coffee, caramel colored
as it pours
          from
               the
                  carafe
turns muddy brown in my mug.
Brilliant white cream
spills
and ca
       s
         ca
            des
down the cabinet
to earth colored rugs
where it pools
and reflects
the first gold
of day.

*In response to Poetic Asides Day 18