Breakfast

by Nancy Takacs

When you open our cupboards for all the ingredients
and I'm upstairs reading a book of poems, you tell me
stay where I am and I follow the trail
in some country of violets that grew gold and purple wildly
in that old house we lived in where poppies too multiplied
and we never separated them. I love listening
now to your hands turning the news,
your talk of pancakes to the dogs, your pause
to hold the cat before she goes out,
I love our weeping willows that grew locks
yesterday, tempting us to drive
on and on into our favorite desert,
reds inside lavender, a long, long blue,
that white opening
we decided to walk through.

–

from Pale Blue Wings

Last Revised: 03/26/2008                                               Copyright © 2008 by Limberlost Press