It paints with more colors than all the flowers
that ever bloomed. It pounces like a lion cub.
It’s the north star, the southern cross
the lace on the moon, the secret of chocolate.
It’s the February sun glowing in the last icicle
on the roof. It’s the blind girl, whose voice
is so beautiful birds gather on branches
near her window for a sing-a-long .
It’s that balmy night when we were young
when the roses found a violin to play.
It’s a giant eraser rubbing out mistakes.
It’s your first train ride, the last midnight swim
of the year. For every day you love, a snowflake
melts on your cheek, and every night a star trembles
over the town, keeping watch as you sleep
children safe in their beds, mice nibbling in the dark.
This article appears in February 2009.
