By Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Language has a flavor.
Imagine tasting peaches
and listening to the canary’s
acoustics; me on the porch
watching the children play
and you with your blue
floppy hat on. White wine
is on the table as we put
our lips to plums. I want
a heart full of conversation
with you with no color but
cerulean to carry me to a
lost moon. How we longed
to fly in our youth, catch
a pinch of the rainbow to
ride it by its tail. Sunlight
on the iridescent water
reminds us that it’s spring.
We smile as my niece’s
two-year-old grasps at
the number of sandals
dangling above the floor,
knotted on a string.

Copyright Sinha-Morey 2012