This poem is like looking at an impressionist painting. Looking straight on, it’s more of a blurred image, but once your eyes adjust, you can see more clearly. It’s pure imagery, so brace yourself.
I remember seeing snowflakes fall during French class and then experiencing that sense of disappointment when it all disappeared by the end of the day. And that image stuck with me while on the bus heading for a basketball game. It could be considered injustice, living in the South, that it takes a lot for the flakes to stick to the ground.
In the downtown area of where we lived, we’d walk around for festivals and stuff. And I remember noticing how when the grass was wet, it looked the same as cooked spinach. The kind of cooked spinach that comes frozen in those little boxes and, to a little kid, looks completely disgusting. So that’s what I’m referencing with “spinach blades.”
White sugar drops
Sprinkle from the gray-dyed cotton
Stretched over the blue pool
On the spinach blades
Creating ripples to spread
Across the greenish-blue mess.
They attack the clovers stained black.
Peeking over the hill’s shoulder,
The illuminated ball of yellow
Blended with an ounce of orange
Yawns from its hidden bed
And stretches its arms in all directions.
Trailing its fingers through the white sheet,
The warmth absorbs the sugar drops.
As the ball of light stands
Its arms and fingers steal the brilliant white
Leaving the spinach blades
With nothing but tears.