Upright against the sofa edge
she stood the crayons, Blue and Red
together as parents always are, primary
and permanent as dye, a Purple mingle.
Over a game of cards, their friends,
Green and Lemon Yellow, argue
as adults do, he a bluster of stalks
and cycadas, she near
weeping for home, Sicily,
where winter drum wheat
turns spaghetti yellow as yearning.
All is color.
All is theater, the stage
where Rose Pink stains her cheek,
becomes her, names the girl
who sets the crayons upright
and waits for Turquoise, the boy
next-door, to pedal his bicycle
past their house, toss the news
in Black and White against
their front door screen, ask
for her hand so they might grow
Orchids in the schoolyard,
Plums in the alley, a bridal bouquet
About the Author
Linda Thomas believes that life is long enough to be many things. She is retired from 30 years of teaching writing at Irvine Valley College. Now, she volunteers for Sea and Sage Audubon as a birder and naturalist. She once wrote poems in crayon.