The black of burnt toast and the see-through gray smoke flying up through the slots. The stench of distraction.
The grackle deep green of our back yard, the birdbath fluttersparkling with customers.
The soft crinkled yellow of six roses, too long in the vase, trying to stand up straight. But faded blonde heads weigh down their stems, and like stooped old ladies at church, they wait for someone to come get them.
The white of this paper, and its gentle blue lines that I’ve been following since I was young. And the red line at the left margin. A guidepost: Keep going, but return to this point each time you get a little further down. The page’s way of saying, “I’m still here. I’ve got you. You’re good.”
The hard dark of the house, once I’ve turned out the lights. And if I give it a minute, the softer dark that ushers me to bed.