(Poem 2)

I’ve always loved the color yellow.
Hues of something joyful and warm sprinkled 
throughout each year, leaping and twirling 
like ballerinas who pirouette from
act to act, season to season.
It's my beacon of hope.

I watch the daffodils bend sunward.
They stretch out toward the peaking light 
that has signaled its return after
a long slumber.
The buds, enveloping their innermost parts, 
bloom in response to the promise of change.

I spot the lemon-colored beach bag and 
smell sunblock and chlorine. Instantly, 
balmy days, stinging eyes, and
the bliss of childlike wonder
come to mind. Freedom from responsibility. 
Each day yields protected adventures.

I turn from the brisk wind to watch the golden 
leaves fall. The tattered edges of well-loved 
novels are pressed against my knees. 
Bundled under blankets, I gaze at
the glowing fire and contemplate
Jane’s assumption that patience is romantic.

Then there’s winter.
It’s barren nature seems a mockery
to the fullness of life. It’s cold, like a house
before a family—framework but not home.
The alabaster lighting sterilizes yellow
and everything becomes clinical, like those rooms.

Now there is you and a stiff bed,
and I cannot seem to tell which is more inanimate.
Breathing deep is a luxury neither of us can afford.
Woefully, I admit that when I see yellow,
it is in your complexion, meaning you’ve been home
for too long and another room is preparing for your admittance.