By, Sandra Monday

 

Oh my epicure

Who tastes food as

Some holy sacrament

The sounds you make as the steak

Rolls on your tongue are blasphemy.

Across from the dinner table

My spine shivers

In our vaulted ceilinged domicile

The sky so high

And Winter Park so long my home

Goodbye Eastside it’s good

To be here

I love the fat grey squirrels

And orange beaked finches

The papery rustle of dry leaves

And the flowery smell

Of you

Beauty is its own reason for being

We do not need to emphasize

Its purpose

How you smile at me

Knowingly as I apply a second

Coat of palm metallic green

To the leaves and alizarin crimson

To blossoms

Exploding on the pale yellow shelf

I will lighten the edges as you say

And prepare a world

For our children that is calm.

 

 

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