Tuesday, January 9, 2024




I don't know who lives in those houses

with pastel doors, mint green

and pale salmon.  Whoever heard of a lavender

door in the middle of winter, as if

snow could dilute

alizarin crimson, saturated lapis,

deepest cobalt blue.  Perhaps

they imagine a kinder welcome.

Girls not able to reach the knobs,

their pink shoes and tired crayons;

boys with missing teeth; the dog barking.

Or an elder in slippers and gown

recalling the pale sprigs of April, the scent of lilac.


Ann Lauterbach


Penguin, 2023