I see myself in cracked paint, slipping off the sides of Victorian buildings, revealing layers of time.
The tired petals of poppies and peonies bow to me
Technicolor fallen queens
I live with the solitary crow high in the branches
Black silk shrouded in mystery.
Sun erupting through clouds like an eye on fire
I float with impressionist clouds
soft blue, scalloped cotton tips
Melted ice cream
The cool taste of iced coffee on my lips
I walk within the smiles of rowdy neighborhood boys on bikes
Warrior calls bellowing
I rest in my son’s eyes,
full of wonder
Brushed by long thick lashes,
the space where the light bends through bamboo blinds
I touch the door, old and worn,
Slamming shut at the corner store.
The sound of
high heels clicking on the sidewalk below.
Damp grass, bare feet
I hear the crickets talk to me
The electric hum from neon signs
From street lights
All senses come alive
An orchestra of chaos
Fragments of observations
Mirrored mosaic pieces of me