Love’s Not A Color But A Hue

In the morning
after you leave,
our bath towels,
yours and mine,
once plump and proud
and folded to an
edge-on “e” now
hang by their necks
like dead chickens
from pegs outside
the bathroom door.


But as I wait
for your return,
in this afternoon’s
soft Thai light,
the same bath
towels now drape
in flowing folds
and take on lovely
hues of blue and rose


May 22, 2011

All rights reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood