Poem 11: Fingerpainting

Blue.
Clowds on
the lake at last light
scratched red
with a fork, scraped
and smeared
over, red dreams swimming
through, against, purple
we wake from water into storms
we rise up green
handprints underneath
we kick and squirm
little flutters of yellow
little clouds in our sky
tines, fingers, nails
blue.

Poem 2: Every Fourth, Last, Now

Red is every fourth letter,
and the leaves on that fiery tree
across the street. Red is M,
red is A, which you pronounce E
and say it's for your name
which begins with the sound of I.
Red was your last color, and still
you say it slowly, quietly,
without the final D.
That hat we loved was red.
That color, in finger paint,
on your cheek. Apple, strawberry.
Purple was more fun to say.
Yellow, too. But fire trucks
and roses and that little bracelet
you pushed over my fingers
and onto my wrist and smiled:
red, all red, say it with me
now.