Spectra

I drank in autumn when the world was sore,

Cabernet crisp from the kiss of apples,

Blood thick, ticking time with the hickories,

Sashaying to the tune of guitar strings,

Waking up to the smell of coffee beans,

A football forgotten among dun leaves

Surrounded by shadows, sealed by spiders.

Days got darker and the moon climbed higher,

Sable eyed crows collected marshmallows,

Pillows preferred over telephone lines.

Ink and paper commemorate the time

December cried, when snow brought the long wait,

So, I wait— with bone-dry lips, cracked knuckles

White as teeth, clicking like a camera,

A film noir starring sleep and silence

While the world ached for a taste of color.

Wiggling through the weight of frost, buds bloomed bright,

Lush like moss, breathing soul into stillness.

Heavens poured heat over my head like rain

And I drank, shriveled up from winter’s sting.

I grew in Spring, while the world was healing,

Branches extended like cherry blossoms,

Garden rich, overflowing with tulips,

Cheeks rosy from the caress of orchids,

Watching, as magic wrapped itself in leaves.

Hummingbirds chanted as one with the breeze

And frogs leapt from lotus to lily pad.

I was sated when summer sauntered in,

Full on orange slices and pineapples,

Sprouting like sunflowers bathed in warm light,

Twirling to the timbre of tambourines,

Skin bronzed, smelling of beaches and sunsets,

Seeing in spite of the colorblind world

That burned just as quickly as it had healed.

When autumn returned, the world was still sore

But I matured, choosing to walk in shades,

Unafraid of change, gazing with new eyes.