Sixty-four Crayolas –
the box that tinted my childhood.
Midnight Blue was the best, the hue of juvenile dreams:
the color of Sunday stained glass,
of strapless taffeta ball gowns
with tulle underskirts, of glittering
gold-sheathed jewels, of being old
enough to stay up until midnight.
Rose window sentries guard the sanctuary.
Dust floats on cerulean shafts of light,
settling on pews, prayerbooks, penitents –
a bride’s benediction.
In a tumbleweed town, my blue-green dress
balances, for a moment, the raw
oozing through adobe cracks of life.
A narrow band set with sapphires
rests uncomfortably on my finger,
the stones’ blue coolness unable to
calm hot magenta madness.
The pacific blue midnight sky watches
over my sleepless nights –
a bittersweet reminder of false Crayola promises.
4 thoughts on “The color of being old enough”
This is a wonderful poem.
Thank you very much. Thanks, too, for following the blog!
This is amazing. You are amazing.
Any chance you can come on maundy thursday so we can color and hide the eggs for the neighborhood? 3,000 this year; will take a few hours.
Yes, probably. But please clarify: 3,000 eggs, or 3,000 neighbors?