Despair of yellow if you wish — The taint of choleric bile, Midas’ daughter, snow pee, jaundiced eyes. While Orpheus’ golden lyre went to Hell and back, sunlight echoed on dayend clouds, towheads ran on Baltic sand, dandelions colored my hand. Jacob’s stairs still ascend — presumably to Heaven — But who waters the geraniums?
Yes, it’s better than glass — a hard, cold divide from reality. I can feel the breeze, rain falls and I am wet, squirrels fear my smell, jays rail at my presence. But, there’s still this matter of nylon, a millimeter thick, a soft cage of unwanted domesticity.