In the pictures we drew as children, wind was green, aquatic,
so here was a tune only we could hear,
a green tune of cats we painted
in the morning when our mother's illness kept us quiet.
And if blue was to be the color of danger
in pictures we drew as children, then sky would be green, and aquatic
the suns we painted yellow-on-yellow and left
in the room for our mother where the slightest motion was the color
of danger. What we knew we made, painting a green tune of cats
in the afternoons when our mother's illness kept us quiet.
We knew the color of danger was brilliant: blue and red and deeper
blue in the pictures we drew as children, the aquatic
limbs of trees, birds above houses in a perfumed arc;
every night we found a tune of new paint for the greenest spire
of our green tune filled with cats.
In the hours of our mother's illness, we painted wind and the flight
of wind with brushes and feathers, our names the letters
she found in the pictures we drew as children, blue-green and aquatic
when danger was greenest blue, was red, was a green tune filled with cats.
Arts & Letters Spring 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Laurie Lamon
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission