Should she not find comfort in the sun?
Color running hectic and spirited
It flits by in a way that she knows
She can’t see tomorrow
And peels the orange from her hand.
Should she not take comfort from the grass?
Green, it blows past in her wind
And spirals behind her head
Like a breeze of relaxation
That kicks paper western-style
Over her path.
Should she not take comfort in the clouds?
Made fresh just for her
In pan ovens,
She sprinkles it white on her food
Like salt taken from the Dead Sea
Where everything floats.
And the sand makes her think of nothing but how
One casket can be molded into something else
In a word.