the joke was funny,
my father, however, said it was blue
and warned me never to repeat it

in the fields where my grandfather
kept his bees on Mr. Granjeans farm,
cornflowers opened their eyes,
winked a welcome to his wild things
and relinquished their sweetness
lavishly

it crushed underneath my bare foot,
I felt it after it was too late, a few missteps
and damage was done, blueberry
plasma crushed into a virgin white wool rug,
my mother’s joy, just another false step
of mine in her aspiration for perfection

his phthalo blue applied with such
gentleness, brushed and slathered
across white canvas drew me spellbound
Saturday mornings,
learning from deep within
there are no mistakes,
just happy little accidents

periwinkle petals,
zaffer glazed eyes,
Dodger blue home runs,
denim enfolds me in comfort,
an indigo sigh shaped to my curves
soft, well-worn, experienced

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Oh, it’s National Poetry Month!!!!

Oh, the choices!

Today I am choosing my prompt from Tweetspeak’s
“Show Us Your Poetry (Jeans)” challenge.

Tomorrow, who knows?