Red Red Umbrella. She goes outside to pick up pieces of rain for her scrapbook. Memory traces of thoughts too loud, in her Grandmother’s cold room.
Intoxicating dance in yellow galoshes. Just a child on a sidewalk sea.
She sees rose petal ships, with grasshopper captains with pine straw oars.
One candy wrapper barge with 22 lady bugs waltzing Tennessee to the sounds of a cricket symphony.
Built in violins in active perfect pitch.
Perfect pitch, perfect world. Away from the room there is no pain.