Cocooned in maroon leatherchair corner of my bedroom,
my bare legs and feet stretched, crossed to rest
on a matching ottoman beside a cottoncurtained window.
In silence but for the intermittent
scratch of a Pilot Precise Rolling Ball blackinked pen
across a journal’s white page.
Now and then, I put down the pen,
take a spoonful of raw nuts and seeds,
chew then savor their texture, taste.
Out of the corner of my left eye,
I spot a tiny white butterfly
flit from the weeds beneath the window,
then notice the nearly empty cereal bowl,
balanced on my lap, is also white.
Pyrex—ostensibly unbreakable, dishwasher safe.
My left foot lies against a paperback copy of
The Expanded New Webster’s Dictionary,
toes bent toward a bluebird painted on a wooden tray.
An apple, wet from a coldwater wash,
rests on a white paper napkin beside
a beveled glass of cool water sweating in sunlight.
As if these morsels were the host and wine,
I pause before lifting my spoon or pen again.
Just then, a seventy-year-old white toilet