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.
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?
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.