Dense canopy turned October thin, the crape myrtle proves shade enough for late afternoon. The old wrought iron still bounces. Breeze helps, too. The other afternoon guests—catbird, brown thrasher, female cardinal, small mystery pair—seem okay with my company. The squirrel, though, slinks above my head as though she fears I have designs on the nut in her jaws. When all I want is to be still and look around for signs.
Between the blue and the violet,
Isaac Newton saw indigo.
Cool and deep.
Some centuries later,
Isaac Asimov said,
“It has never seemed to me
that indigo is worth the dignity
of being considered a separate color.
To my eyes it seems merely deep blue.”
Both Isaacs did good work but it seems to me
That Newton led the more enchanted life.
This I can say, based on personal experience:
My windowsill was not complete
Until I placed an indigo flower and a sphere of clear bubbles
Between the blue and the violet.
Now my heart sings.
The time has come, I did cheerfully say,
to put away the Pack & Play.
Here I am, relaxed and breezy —
Disassembly should be easy!
But rails stayed rigid and nothing was gained
And all my confidence quickly drained
And all the logic I could muster
Proved no match for this knuckle-buster.
Oh you contraption, contrarily lurking,
jammed in a corner, perversely smirking —
The baby’s gone home but here you still are
Obstinately on your half of the floor —
YouTube expounded, but could not explain —
Then Myst’ry relented and gave up the game!
It calmly folded, accepting its place,
And zippered itself into its case.
Everlasting Arms 