The Book On My Nightstand

The Mulberry Tree outside is farther from my window than the sun- light that penetrates my bedroom, 2PM-4PM. The sun's yellow ribbed lines against the walls bar the shadow of a stick that sways as if to scrape the paint of butter vanilla hues. The tree, shaped like a menorah, is dappled with fruit colors. I think of exits, with their ruby glow. His. Mine, especially... the mauve violet tinge of night that spawns tiny silver bursts. The caught "snow- ball" in the sky, tossed from a collision, long ago. A Mulberry Tree is also in my bed- room. Its arms are dressed with acrylic tints- of butter-fly wings. The poems are brief questions; statements, of faith, of poignancy. They boast of a majestic spark that lights the sky. The dance of planets in sync like the words of the poem, their orbit one year; two years; three. Perhaps ten thousand. The poem: age-less. Through the lens of sun- light, the bars-dusk stains- prison-like- nab the branch of the tree. So I will cling, and swing, above the sea.