Watching the meadows fade away and hesitantly listening to
the noises that do so as well. My mother washes her plastic
dishes with a growing frown on her face and her hands grow
slower, retrieving dirt from their little crevices.

The walls of the kitchen look grossly yellow, once white
until paint met with dry surface. I never liked chalk when
it stayed on my finger from where the nails hit.

Small particles of white drift slowly from the cold absence
of rain and faces express their drowning as geese steadily
crawl through the atmosphere, honking warnings to those who
have not impaired their ability to analyze vibrations. 

Silence lay between branches and the bare roots have their
new layer of bedding.

I wake up when the darkness had not yet disappeared,
lingering on me throughout the day. My alarm clock is my
enemy and so it finds its place under my harsh hand.

For-telling the future may be difficult, but I believe I may
have done so. The gray and the white really aren't that
different after all and mice and cats don't contrast much
either. 

Longing for the purity may be good, but I believe color will
be to my favor in the next few hours. 

If I'm not alone, maybe they'll come earlier.