Morning peeks
through the window shades,
caressing the walls
with soft golden strokes.
Raising myself out of darkness,
I open my eyes.
The tulips resting
on the windowsill
gracefully lift their heads, stretching
toward the warmth, their faces
a blaze of scarlet red,
canary yellow, bursts
of tangerine so sweet,
my mouth begins to water.
Shaking the slumber
from my skin, my bare feet
meet the icy alabaster tiles,
and I move toward the mosaic
of brilliant blues arranging itself
beyond my bedroom window.
As I watch the sun blink away
its drowsy blackberry skies,
I think of you,
and allow my eyes
to linger
on the azure waves washing
over an early morning,
led by a tide of sea foam clouds.
--
You taught me to live in color
when you told me you could not.