Color is secondary to light
Choices are intermittent and arbitrary
Quiet is a luxury
Everyone is sad
Flowers are extraneous
Flying a kite is mandatory
A shield of propriety is nice
I’ll never make it
Reading is a good way to disappear
Shoes should be comfortable
Gravy should be assumed
Intellect supersedes kindness
Nonsense can fit in a box
We are interplanetary missiles
It’s ok to climb a roof to see the stars better
Rules are optional

The sky refused
to cooperate,
holding onto
a stone-grey palette.

Any quest for joy
was waylaid
by an icy response.

The swans didn’t say much
but their slow gaze and feather ruffling
made me take a deeper breath
which meant the difference between days,
between spaces, pockets of time
that can be found in a few hours of rest
or with a reshuffling of chemicals
or cracking open an aching heart
to let in a little light, a little love
and in this case, letting some birds tell me
what’s what and where I belong.

I am wearing coffee and violet.
It is hypnotizing, according to Ulta,
like a return to 1987.
I am harboring some silky secrets
like the best chocolates when you’re blue.
Camus loves my happiness- he said so.

The man in the cafe mirror is timeless.
His kisses are deep, slow.
A busy world moves slowly around us.
The tighter the hold, the freer I feel.
A shut umbrella makes me free to feel rain.

Beaches are growing, space is shrinking.
We bloom and grow, bloom and grow,
like edelweiss, rugged and pure.

I feel like I’m wearing an extra pair of socks.
But all over my body.
It seems my coat is intent upon catching on every knob today.
I feel accidentally flamboyant.
Being over 50 means having strange warmth
spreading from my cheeks to my knees, skipping my hands.
I watch the older woman, cataloging her:
crimson hair, brown fur coat, green pants,
leopard handbag, clutching a tissue.
I look down at myself, mostly muted.

There is coffee cake in the break room
and if that doesn’t sound dully sophisticated,
I don’t know up from down,
though that can be confusing anyway
when it’s an incessantly grey winter.
There’s an awful 80’s ballad playing,
making me want to ask the optometrist for ear plugs.
I feel like Billy Pilgrim, in and out of time.

The old woman is making declarations
and I’d like to too, if I had something
besides creature comforts to cling to today.