Turkeys in the Snow

The Weight of White

 A blinding glare in the winter night flows from approaching headlights.
I feel the crisp weight of high thread count sheets against my face.
He says, “The hotter a kiln reaches, the whiter it gets.”
The feet of turkeys in the snow direct me.

White peonies awaken in spring, delighting armies of ants.
I place my nose in the foam atop my cappuccino.
I feel the crisp weight of high thread count sheets against my face.
The feet of turkeys in the snow direct me.

I place my nose in the foam atop my cappuccino.
I imagine myself inside the white paintings of Agnes Martin.
White peonies awaken in spring, delighting armies of ants.
The cauliflower, blooming like roses, is ready to roast.

He says, “The hotter a kiln reaches, the whiter it gets.”
The cauliflower, blooming like roses, is ready to roast.
A blinding glare in the winter night flows from approaching headlights.
I imagine myself inside the white paintings of Agnes Martin.