A Living Palette
errol miller
A little country place
with deep dark soil and children
round about the knee, a limestone stream
rushing into infinity and the daily paper
delivered on time every day, you construct
a geometric pattern of thought
forgetting about trouble, you construct
a narrow white trellis for roses
and wait for tomorrow, this is the Old South
and New England and the Midwest and the North
you take a path leading away from the garden
you want to make a copy of today, a
brick wall to hold back the future, you go
past the clemantis vine and the garlic patch
you paint a large blue mural
you drift back home again for suppertime
creating pastel portraits, climbing
the steep fieldstone pathway
opening the heavy iron gate, soon
it is twilight, the kitchen door open
an empty swing swooning on
a wide-brimmed white front porch
you pause under an old apple tree
gathering the moist night air around you
creeping bent among the handiwork
and pottery shed
where pressed flowers wait
in silent flatware servitude
and you remember how much
you love this time, this place.
