Greening The Jade

There are wheels on cobblestones

outside the windows of her words.

There is a sailor's parrot on a velvet swing

and strands of colored beads in the doorway to her room.

There is never any summer, no noon to white the wall

and so she'll understand if what you told her wasn't real.

A Persian's ears are there to warm her hands

indifferent to the wheeling way she feels.

San Francisco gray as gulls' wings in the morning

or Barcelona in the lazy afternoon

are in the jeweled clip that holds her careless hair back

to ease her eyes to catch the moon.

Don't say you're sorry, don't sing softly in her stairwell

where the echoes' angels fade.

She always knew that open windows let the rain in

to blue her dreams and green the jade. 

________

for Sunday Muse #139.