ManicDDaily

L’Heure Bleu

They ask me another name
for the l’heure bleu, and all I can think of
are yellow squares, kitchen framed
by eventide, those windows
where women work–

and through the yellow, beams
of door jamb, a chintz
of suds, dish rag, stretch-marked
Saran–
cupped wells of coffee–the dark sides
of too many moons, or canyons
of a more distilled amber (burning
as it goes down)–
eyes flecked
with dab, veins rooting legs
before a sink–

I don’t mean to make it sound ugly–that gold glimmer as beautiful as
cake, luminous as
honey comb, and in the blue-black backdrop,
moths shimmer/flap
against sheened
screens;

and in the putting it all away,
one more helping,
helping–

TV greys elsewheres
but there a rose will smell as sweet even painted
dripping Dawn–

no fear

no fear

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Draft poem for Real Toads Open Platform hosted by Marian.  The l’heure bleu is the blue hour- a time of dusk/evening that is exactly what it sounds like.   Painting is one of mine; watercolor with windows added through iphone app. (Ha.)  All rights reserved.