From her blue chair

she spins kites & umbrellabirds

so that the walls don't feel

quite as grey or solid or cold.

From her velvet chair

she purls rivers & swimmers

to flow through cracks in walls

rush under a sky fragmented

with clouds. From her cushioned

cool she stands to braid a dress

of orange, a shift of sunrise/lily/clownfish/

corn snake/carnelian/tiger.

From her wingback she surges

forth to find moon ravel it

into her bodice careens from cloud

to rivulet through walls of stellar nursery

there to rediscover flow & flight

wander/wonder & collapse/expand--

she flashes ruby & cobalt kindles

the dust & clouds that had

entwiined with sternum & spine

to ignit mnovas into ripple

& echo.

As a child Mary Pickford ate

roses, thinking they would bring her

beauty, petal-deep

& thorn-wise.

When I was a child, I envied coleuses--

their bronze leaves, ruby spines, green outlines,

others solid magenta or lime-veined

with cherry, the way they stationed

themselves in a bed boxed by brick & stone,

stood stolid, unimpressed

by wind.

As a young woman, I dreamed of blue flowers--

rare in the vegetable kingdom--delphinium

morning glories, lobelia, cornflower

& those sky-clad forget-me-nots.

I hoped their exotic pull would rub off on me

& I would evoke ocean & moon

in others.

Now as sun wanes & moon

illuminates crone fingers

on oak & sycamore

my eyes ogle zinnias & lily tongues

& the bowl-petals of hibiscus

that sing in the sliver

of afternoon.

And yet the faded lipstick colors of roses

hum & whisper their fragrant

secrets to me, inviting me

to nibble on their petals

held up by spines

as green as moss

in winter.