Purse and Canvas Bag

Doo-dads rattle
along that length
of last sunlight,
blown through colors,
bits of glass. Lazy
afternoon bifocals dip,
skim
the lost selvages
of down.
The red spectrum
reflects
the signing hands
waving above
Aurora’s sweet
diminutive frame-
she calls out below
the northern crags
until autumn offers help
by raising her
shoulders, slightly-
across her top and
middle,lifting her gaze
toward the sparkling
sheets of starlight’s troupe,
dancing, laughing, applauding.
Aurora, golden,
en pointe, a plie,
finishes with a low sweeping bow,
fingers brushing snowy
dirt lanes poured
across granite fields.
Old mountain men
spit
and utter profanities,
like ‘darn’
and ‘I should have’
when they didn’t-
their legs splayed
blocking the porch
like broken sawhorses
tired as wet haystacks.
Out back, in the tiny
cottage bathroom ,
tucked away under
a blanket of perfume spray,
baubles mingle with
paper wrappings- they
make crumpling sounds.
She spends her days
in the quietest of places,
reading craft journals
when the seat lid is closed.
The ruckus outside subsides,
muffled from within,
the haven for tired feet,
while blue eyes and
reading glasses
skim
through a pile of recipes
for creamy casserole bakes.