She’s fuchsia
purple
royal blue.
She’s wine,
emerald,
turquoise.
Everyone knows it.
But you gift burnt orange
despite having heard years
of disgusted mutterings
about orange and yellow and olive
from childhood.
Burnt orange.
Burnt.
Orange.
She ponders
Surely there is a message here?
and wonders whether you would be offended
if she dyes your gift
more than she’s offended
by burnt orange.
At the moment, I’m thinking about The Cat Years…
.
Giving birth
to all the dreams
of a future,
a blessing
longed for,
imagined
named
years—
decades—
before.
Happiness
held tightly
and blinking brown eyes
sleepily from a blanket
tightly wrapped into
a cocoon of possibility.
.
Walking away,
snarling and critical,
bored and irritated,
cynical.
Mocking talents,
unappreciative of
sacrifices made,
opportunities given.
.
Kindnesses
rebuffed,
communication
ignored,
considerations
declined.
.
Mocking the dreams
and the sweet scent of
hope that lingered
in the folds of
new skin
wrapped tightly
with what we thought
was happiness.
.
Possibility is a
far more pleasant
contemplation
than reality.
Shawn L. Bird 