Kaleidoscope
(a constantly changing pattern or sequence of objects or elements)
My boyfriend called me pumpkin. Only once. I hate orange
unless it is in the sky, then I ooh and aah. Pink and red
have it made, but not in the shade. Shade is green.
Fifty shades of forest: Pine, moss, cedar, maple, fir, willow.
I don’t like yellow, but the sunflowers in my yard make me
smile. I wore black before I became a widow. My favorite
scientist, Isaac Newton, discovered white light is made of all
the colors. I wonder what color captured his favor as light split
through the glass? Sometimes when I’m bird watching,
my binoculars catch sight of dew prisms in the grass, exploding
hues like earth-bound novae. In Shanghai, where my late husband
first showed signs of illness, I used to meander through IKEA,
soak up color like a drab, dry sponge. Rows of rugs, toys, and gadgets
splashing chromatic joy like a spilled box of Skittles, like paint splatters
on a drop cloth, like the rainbow that forms on the back side of a storm.
Lines Written While Throwing Out Old Photos
After Eduardo C. Corral’s “Lines Written During My Second Pandemic”
The rim of the caldera crackles with nostalgia.
Nostalgia lub dubs its way into a heart.
In the basement there’s a trunk where nostalgia lies in wait.
Nostalgia is always written in past perfect tense.
I chug a mug of nostalgia every morning for breakfast.
The umbrella of nostalgia repels reality’s pelting.
Nostalgia expands to fit the shape and size of its container.
Nostalgia is the unreachable tick about to burst.
Brought into the light, nostalgia sprouts like a chia pet.
Nostalgia’s facade is cratered by tears.
Left unchecked, nostalgia turns the music up to eleven.
Nostalgia always calls shotgun in the car.
During thunderstorms, nostalgia skywrites with disappearing ink.
Nostalgia leaves a trail of bread crumbs I feed on when peckish.
Karen Moulton, after a teaching career spanning 39 years and two continents, finds herself retired in the Ozarks where her heart belongs to a man, a dog, and the natural beauty surrounding her. Since moving to Flippin, Arkansas, seven years ago, she has taken up birding, photography, native plant gardening, painting, making jewelry, and other creative endeavors. She is the author of three chapbooks: One Year Ago Today and Other Poems of Revelation, NOW, and The Unpartnered Wife. Her work has been in Rattle, SLANT: A Journal of Poetry, The Ekphrastic Review and is upcoming in Rat’s Ass Review.
