Inside I absolutely love the potential of mornings
black to grey to the developing dawn
capricious clouds, possibility of rain
right outside every window waiting as if
it will always be this way waking me
the returning birds so boisterous, bawdy,
little bird brains sending out signals,
songwriting in the air, screaming and
other prayers, pastimes, partying as if
we exist for their pleasure, oh yes
or do you really think they don't know
yellow butter sky, tinge of tangerine to
weeping cherry pink tears not yet dropping
down past forsythia hidden nests not disturbed
by late Spring snow so white as if blanketed
inside opens to outside where stillness is
on a back street, tertiary to any triage
but not forgotten by a street sweeper swishing
and swashing past, scarcely touching asphalt
an odd thing on a rainy day as if required
while I fold three white cotton handkerchiefs
found crumpled, gifts from him to me as if
I was ever that kind of lady, me with my
pocket preoccupations, lack of fashion sense
oh but the lace, the tiny violets, the purple
I leave these embroideries out where they
are seen several times each day, not to be
pursed, pocketed, or possibly passed along
as if anyone else would understand except the lone
yellow jacket examining the edges to death