It begins with absence of color
All the reds the greens the bright lemon yellows you have called your own melting away from you
You have held them, here, in your hand - houses and chimneys, strong wooden doors which would not be unhinged by mad angry winds, small square gardens with squiggly stone paths running through at random, just because you like them like that ' random
A bird, wings outstretched, swimming through the white, taking it all in from way above ' hell this one is not a June shadow ' this one lives
And then you would always make a butterfly right at the corner of the page, not the whole of it, just a flutter ' right at the corner ' like you almost did see it but then looked away, distracted by footsteps ' familiar.
An old car of stories parked in the driveway ' the bumper sticker says 'i fly'� ' it makes you smile
You go back to the lines ' mama can I make fish in the garden? Silver wings fish? baby, fish don't have wings.
You shake your head free of the black wanderings
Flowers have never been your thing. Half circles drawn over and over again don't fit in your world. So you go back to music. Drawn over and over again.
The last time you spoke, skies upon skies stepped away from their blue
You begin with absence of color.

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