13 December 2013

Dear Doublewide,

Though we met you masked in dirty white

we’ve mined your true colors — yellow for Coreopsis,

apricot for bristle-mallow, mauve heart of cactus flower,

opuntia blossoms splayed like rainbows, pink glow

on fearsome peaks each dawn & dusk, orange tile topping

green-concrete garden walls, flame-hued Kniphofia,

pink heart of bursting fig, lavender blue,

rosemary blue, palest green chive, white rose

pink rimmed with mutation.

                                        Dear Doublewide,

Remember the dog's leg bone we carried home from the beach

to bleach on the rail? Remember how we rinsed

sand dollars? Remember the day we unhinged

the front gate, unscrewed the cantankerous latch

we learned to do without? Pretended a reindeer —

antlered, leading its mate — hazed the cat through the slider

from decking covered in snow?

                                              Dear Doublewide,

We dream of a round wooden table fronting

a wall of books, a recovered chenille throw flattering

the loveseat. We’ll play Bach inventions on no-strings keyboard

while missing high-strung quebracho beams —

your ceiling, Doublewide, is low.