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.