This is Me
I’m a room’s golden glow
paneled in luminous framed prints, refracting and shiny
with a tossed, jauntily quilted pillow demanding attention.
I’m the waxed wood floors, slightly gritty,
a bright bouquet of yellow freesia beckoning buoyantly,
and a tempting stack of books close by.
I’m an empty rocking chair, inviting embrace
a comfy couch yawning in corpulent contemplation
with a plush carpet underfoot, tickling toes.
I’m a white tablecloth scattered with flakey croissant crumbs,
a mahogany clock quietly ticking unheeded and unseen,
and a blue blown glass vase, swirled while molten, anticipatory.
I’m the pungent smell of cinnamon buns baking,
an irreverent but newsy letter sculpted in scrawling calligraphy
and a knitting basket overflowing, pregnant with possibility.
I’m the warm spring air improvising clean expletives,
a reluctant wind chime tinkling softly in protracted silence,
and a burnished hope, sown deep, poised, but drawling.