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.

Time has passed

-- from P. Wanken's "Alone"

I long
for blinding sun
reflecting
off of white snows.
A sweet agony
to the eyes
soon to be followed
by muffled steps
and heavy breaths
frosting before my eyes
in cold air.
Time has passed
but still
falls rain.

Center

That I sit here
surrounded by
crayon drawings
of big headed girls
(she’s in her big head phase)

and photographs of family
sometimes startles me,
as
looking back,
I identified with
(then) planet Pluto.
The smallest
furthest away
speck of a world
and I marvel
at the collisions
which brought me
here.
Center.

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.

Cabbage

Perhaps I’ll dance,
this afternoon,
while snowflakes cascade down,
clinging to my eyelashes,
blurring my vision,
presenting me a kaleidoscope world
where I’ll spin until
I’m too dizzy to stand,
so I’ll fall harmlessly
into a pile of leaves
then roll
into the cabbage patch
and see
if my head
stands out
in the crowd.

Whenever the Grays meet the Blues

Sandwiched between harsh light
and gray windows
I choose gray light
where at least a water color sky
offers cold greeting
and the small remains of yellow
dot the still green grass.
I color in the rest with red socks
and blue sleeves
before confronting the first day
of melancholy.
Perhaps I’ll dance
this afternoon.

Forced Focus

Dense fog

forces me to focus

on the world

in front of my eyes.

The horizon is a myth.

Turning the corner

reveals

November chrysanthemums,

burnt orange and butter

against

the gray-white fog,

brilliant color

planted

as though knowing

this day would arrive.

Revealed

only in the shroud.