I was going to mix colours, render an eddy
of curving bright green, speckles of red
(touches of inevitable black in the gouache)
“May this year be green,
may it roll through you
a meadow, a wave
raised by the wind of your days.”
Something like that.
But other winds pushed that wave into space.
When I showed you my list of priorities,
the wave was gone.
“Weren’t you going to make me one of your undulations
for my birthday?”
Annoyed, I threw the list down.
Now the day is past. “Don’t bother,” you said.
“Your birthday’s coming up: leave it to me,
I’ll make you the warm glow.”
The wave glistens. Distant mirage.
The paints are in the cupboard. Inner retort:
Still no time.
But I can write you this: this lost satellite
wheels in my head, a shimmer, I made it
especially for you:
this green satellite shimmer report.
-- Saranac Review, Issue 3, 2008