A room of my own—of my own—with books
and books and books and shelves of books that climb
like roses twine a trellis—up and up—
bursting with petals, leaves, and sweet pink scent.
Their roots reach deep beneath fir floors,
their tip-top petals brush sky-hued ceiling.
Above, behind, under, around the desk,
the table, chaise, and chair—a symphony
of images, alliteration, rhyme,
of iambs, metaphor, metonymy.
Beyond the window and book-blooming shelves,
a cherry tree in blossom lifts pink arms,
rejoices over snowdrops nodding white
delighted heads against the cherry’s knees.
In summer, roses reach like books—up, up—
and sunshine beckons, Come, inhale, and play.
Inhale and play. Beyond the garden gate,
more pink: a Vespa waits. I take a spin
around the block, the neighborhood, the town.
Word pebbles ripple everywhere, my eyes
the pond. I seek sweet books in candy tints—
persimmon, periwinkle, peppermint—
in which to read and write and dream and see.
My dress, a summer sky, whips at my knees
while cherry blossoms roost in curls that trail
behind me like ribbons in warm, kind wind.