Color Collective Poem

Silver Spring- Benjamin Moore

2120-70

Spring,
A bud, barely blossoming
She stares out

out her window 

in anticipation

Keen to sneak out the kitchen door

she holds her breath

one, two, three

lets it out, back in

inhaling the chilly air

(it hurts her lungs)

When the raindrops

make their way
to the icy branches
of the cherry blossom tree

She spends her days 

out,
in the wilderness
running free

Winter, 

Just an ice cold skeleton in her memory
she glides
through her silver spring.

Her mother

at the kitchen sink

her father gone
the child, she seeks happiness
in the vanishing cold 

her coat made of nylon

She lets her pale lips

kiss the frigid air
and her bones weaken
She leaves those memories 

to be buried 

in the ground
No more despair

Her mouth begins to feel dry

she slowly and thoroughly

moves her still damp tongue

Across her chapped, cracked, colorless lips

The air begins to numb

Her hands

She reaches for the door knob

Back home

But her hand slips off

And comes back

To her side

She decides to sit on the stairs

The ones that lead home

And a single cherry blossom

Falls to her feet

It lays motionless

With a thin layer of snow still under

Her hand reaches out to it

And picks it up

There will be others like it

Replacing the snow

She reaches for the door knob

And says

Goodbye to her silver spring.