Last Poem

 While leaving for work on the first day of spring

Now the white cloud jumps twice round the rooftop,
like a circular phantom of her last cold breath.
she was near silver madness from looking out frost's window, 
at all those gray crystal tree branches.

Today, the little girl might be thinking, we'll have a new kind of white, 

with hopes of lemonade stands, of honeysuckle, of a new green leaf.

The dog, wrapped up in the blind cord again, slides it's nervous tail, 

hiding it behind the girls cool aide covered legs,

The dog sniffs, not quite noticing the girl is sulking, or that taste of potato chips.

but I notice. It blues my lavender hat, wanting a green brim.

I glance back to see white gloves in tufts, through honey combed shades,

becoming a chipped mountain calla lily. Indeed, the blinding has completely 

transformed my porcelain girl's tear into a blurry smile.

Her gloves move a tea cup then a rag doll, and a plate made in china. 
The bronze mirror, behind the window, frames her lovely sleepy hair.

It moves now, our golden lock, perhaps to the basement to find a kite.

Hoping, that when I return, she may greet Daddy with a breezy

warm afternoon, of playing in blue grass, of needing a bath.