The pebbly look of clouds at dusk, as though washed
limpid by sky clear as water.
And yes it’s hard for me to pass grocery store shelves
bedecked with sale signs, the sidewalk tables
at the corner cafe where tiny jugs for cream
and lidded bowls for sugar gleam whitely—
and not think of you wondering where next
month’s sustenance is coming from.
You say you take a cup of coffee in the morning,
bread, an egg sometimes. What else?
Someone points out the wild rose bushes
next to the broken-down wall, how they are
choked with ruffled blossoms—
everything sunlit, struck, blazoned
as the air above fills with indigo,
even as the light is dying.
—Luisa A. Igloria
10 18 2011
In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.
