Chris Yellow

My mother\'s color

In my earlier days,

as the sleepy first ray

touched the wooden shades

in my small bedroom frame.  

 

 

She would slide with no pull,

her lips drawn in a curve:

\"Goood morniiing from

the lark to the blackbird\"  

 

 

That was one other quirk

I could not comprehend

that would bring to me glee

no matter where I\'d stand.

 

Under echoes of thunder

I\'d be the one visiting,

her square bright room,

with for furniture a

double bed \'n\' a stand.

 

But the sun exploded

shone its nuclear a core,

and its warm a color:

embraced circular lamps,

dripped along the long drapes,

bounced on the smooth duvet,

poured down the carpet

and swallowed you mellow.

 

The room has since enlarged

symptoms of a good agein\'

but the color remains

her favorite today.

 

I still guarantee her sight

gets wrong, blue?, signals

when yellow fills her eyes.

 

Yet I climb to a nest

when those touches mine.