This Year’s Color

Radiant orchid
throughout each season—even now
when rain can’t quite

wash away the most hardened dirty
snow. Somewhere the temperature

drops just enough at night
before a warming settles in. Somewhere
someone sings,

“California Dreamin’”
to coax things along. Someone

somewhere is still searching
for a word that rhymes
with orange.

My New England Roots

Are showing. I am not afraid
of gray

days and midnight blue
evenings—the Atlantic

a skipping stone’s
throw away

at all times. Barnacles
hosted in the seams

of everything. Four distinct
seasons, each with its own

drama—highs and lows.
Connecticut and Massachusetts

call me home at the least
expected moments. I don’t

always answer—but can’t
camouflage my soul’s saturation for long.

And They Call It Pictionary

Corsages not corsets. Shawls
over the Venus

de Milo. Motel
not hotel. Architect over

poet. Defect without
sheepdogs or

a diaspora.
A clock,

a kite, or a barn. One
last busy signal

before the station
wagon rolls over another

gravel road off
the map. No one shouts

“caryatid”—even
when hitchhikers with 2x4s

return, mumbling,
“It’s just a game.”