Photo by Tina Lear

The black of burnt toast
and the see-through gray smoke
flying up through the slots.
The stench of distraction.

The grackle deep green
of our back yard, the birdbath
fluttersparkling with customers.

The soft crinkled yellow
of six roses, too long
in the vase, trying to
stand up straight. But
faded blonde heads
weigh down their stems,
and like stooped old ladies
at church, they wait for
someone to come get them.

The white of this paper, and its
gentle blue lines that I’ve been
following since I was young.
And the red line at the left margin,
as guidepost:

The hard dark of the house,
once I’ve turned out the lights.
And, if I give it a minute,
the softer dark that
ushers me to bed.

Writer. Yoga teacher. Musician. Buddhist. Quilter. Animal lover. Visible grownup. Hidden child. Secret dancer when all alone. Makes good bread.