key

See a vase of flowers
pink and pointy
staring wide. See the

other vase full of
something else
pink or not
perhaps
some flower that looks
even more
like a flower
in a vase sun
from a window bending
through water or
the only bright
spot on a table some
thing I can
not even imagine. See

a picture of me as I
fumble in my bag
my big leather one
with the several pockets
for my keys
for here
and there. The jingling
is the key but to which?
See me reach

in and grab. I go
by feel not
sure what I have until
the bottom. Until
I hold it beneath
my nose in the palm
of my hand. See my bed

old with a cover plain
as a book. It is not
pretty but
it pleases me and is soft
when I need
to sleep. See me searching

for myself in the words
between the lines
wondering which
color which tree which
nose which place which moon
which skin which eye
I am. See a movie

of me as I sit
in the audience
leaning forward
hoping
for a glimpse of my wrist
or small of back or long
fingers in the frame. See

me reading all these: bed as brown
as a book, flowers pink.
Black night. Jasmine tea and
star gazer lilies, pink
not white but really blue
if they were my
color, like eyes
staring out and up. White
as sylph as snow as
beauty. Stems and leaves green
as tree as
eye as summer. See me write

a note
that spring doesn’t
always mean
new beginnings
that some
times autumn
red
as scars as woman
does.