Saturday, April 4, 2015

Day 4 National Poetry Month 2015

My friend, Anne, sent these three words: mother's hand or fingers, a box of crayons, and a purse
I open the yellow box of Crayola crayons
breaking the seal one spot at a time.

It's the day after Christmas and I finally
have time to play with my presents.

I put the new doll on a shelf, not knowing
what else to do with her. Tags have been removed

from crisp new blouses and they're hung
in the closet.  (I know my lips pursed a bit

when I opened this gift of clothes.  I'm nine
not nineteen.) The Monopoly game I'm saving

for when a friend visits.  The flying saucer
needs a little more snow.  I picture my mother's

hands wrapping everything, using just a little
Scotch tape and fashioning a bow with the

crimped ribbon she curls by running the scissors
down the leftover ends.  I'm young but I know

money is tight.  My mom went to the bank
every Friday and put five dollars into her

Christmas Club so we four kids could have
a good Christmas.  Ah, but this lowly

stocking stuffer almost glows.  I touch the cut-off
pointed tips.  I put my nose right up to them

and breathe the waxy scent of imagination.
Forty-eight different colors, forty-eight possibilities.

I find a piece of plain white paper, use two fingers
to pull the orange/red crayon out and begin to draw.

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