White rose, cabernet.

You took a white rose and dipped it

In a glass of cabernet—

And yesterday the mountains were violet on the horizon

Though today they’ve been enveloped in a matte layering of feather white snow—

I took a glass of chardonnay

And I watched it spiral down the drain—

And the teapot is simmering, wining

Spewing out steam coming to its boiling—

And last night the yard was blue

And the crests of little waves churned up by winter winds in the pool were quartz

And the moon, last night, hung lower than usual, emitted light brighter than usual—

Though tonight, I know she’s not likely to make such an appearance.

So tonight, the yard, the crests of waves, the cabernet roses, the mountains— they will all be black.

Never is there anything wrong with that.