Making Pink

Making Pink

A sliver, a fuzzy strand picked—unraveled—

From atop an unexpected afternoon

Sunshower’s prismic bowing memory.

A newly delivered niece’s ankle:

The muscled portal—marvelously stretched

And pliant—through which she came.

Baronne Henriette de Snoy, free-flowering

Victorian hybrid rose asserting a

Final early autumn dooryard bloom.

An intricate doily adorning an antique walnut

Secretary, crochet’d of gossamer silken

Twine by loving arthritic fingers.

A fair-skinned grandson’s beaming cheeks

After too many hours in the garden sun,

Cultivated along grandfather’s stretched shadow.

The tint dripped from heaven upon the

Flesh tones of humanity’s many shades,

Beamed through freckles, tans, and browns.

An elbow abrasion, just dressed, after a slip-

And-fallen tumble on a loose-graveled,

Brookside Appalachian foot trail.

The lips of newly vowed then short-parted:

Now kissing many years later, forgiven

And reformed in committed matrimony.

The sweet first bite of a confectioner’s

Neapolitan, followed by vanilla and

Chocolate. Or all at once, a melted medley.

The electrified tingle as the hum

Of joining neurons collude at a moment

Of epiphany, ecstasy or invention.

The dapple in the blood-blistered eye

At a hero’s last breath, as he crosses

From these, our arms, to eternity’s.

The right dusk. The just right dawn.

The infrared just on the cusp of visibility.

The most nuanced, spurred histamine.

Between

Day and night:

Beginning and end:

The best and worst.

Order: Chaos.

Energy: Entropy.

Just right.

Just-made

          Pink.