We buy the rice called Milagrosa
that comes in sacks imprinted with
a red elephant or a pair of fish.
Poured into plastic bins, it makes
the sound of steady rain, not
the soughing of wind in branches
laden with armfuls of snow.
Neighbors think they’ve heard a red
fox at dusk, its piteous screams carrying
from the rocks by the edge of the water.
Washing up in the kitchen, I look out
into the garden where night has fallen.
My fingers trace the oily film on a dish,
and somehow the air has eaten sorrow.
On shelves in the craft supply store,
alpaca yarns in watercolor hues. I know
a knitter in Vermont who dyes his threads
in bowls of Kool-Aid. I want the Arctic
Green Apple, or Aguas Frescas
in Tamarindo and Guayaba— colors
of shoots pushing up through murky water.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.