yellow walls and blue walls, green, gray
we are calling loudly, listening to our voices bounce and echo down the hall
stairs are creaking, though the late summer air, humid and thick, has made the wooden boards swell and split in the heat
our whole house is full, laughter and humidity plumping out the sides of it like a stout little mushroom in the deep grass.
drops of moisture condense on the colored walls and overgrown bushes reach in through the windows.
Everything is thick and lush and hot and happy.
Annie was a little girl when the yellow walls lit up each morning
racing down the hallway her blond hair lit behind her
kicking blocks and yelling out numbers….3,2,1
ready or not here I come, and suddenly she is a woman.
the slow days of summer are over but the hot house is still full.
now the oven, fat with root vegetables roasting and I secretly turn the thermostat toward equatorial temperatures.
touching the door with palms flat, our hands turn cold
but inside cheeks are rosy.
mom’s hair curls as it clings to her wet face and neck while she pulls the pottery from the oven. steam blurs the view out our kitchen window but it is night anyway and there is not much to look at.
the stars above are burning busily, every night they move with different plans, but below, in the hot house, in the happy kitchen, we are unaware and their activities elude us.