I wish I lived
in a climate where I could look out the window
and write about orange blossoms.
But I get ashy snow,
ashy bird dung that’s been staring me down
for months;
grunge on stop signs
when I drive to work,
no bare feet
tickled by white sand and bright blue waters.
Although I can work with this color-
blue-
I’ve got the kind of blue like veins through
white skin-
the kind of blue that resists orange
though I don’t want it to.
I bring the dog in from a frostbitten walk,
with wet ankles and snow scrapes.
we are hit by the furnace heat, bright.
