We skip along (if we can skip)

like the children who live inside

of us. Wide-eyed innocents

color suns yellow as daffodils

and orange and lavender flowers.

Next we will draw houses all in a row

with chimneys like Santa Clause likes

and smiles in all the windows

(even if we know different).

Doors lean higglety-pigglety, but trees

reach for whipped potato clouds,

round as apples and lollipops,

and grass will never grow brown.

Suddenly, our page rips:

a car door catches a finger

or a doctor reports bad results

or a job falls through, or trust.

Maybe someone we love falls prey

to disease or a backlash of despair.

This is when all the crayons

you can locate are dull black

or jail gray, and keep breaking.

Until the day when you happen

to turn back a page,

and the smiles are still smiling

and the apples are still growing

and one of the crooked doors opens.

Looking up, you see friends waiting

for you to invite them in.

And guess what?

Someone has brought a whole box

of new Crayolas. Another, a book.

Another strolls in bearing music.

Old, young and in-between

sprawl on the floor and start to color

up a storm. Yellow suns bloom,

green grass springs, skies dress up

and good smells begin to tickle

all  our noses. Cookies

go with ice cream, don’t forget.

Anyone for whipped cream

or M&M’s? What? We’re out of cream?

Santa ate the candy? That’s all right.

We’ll go outside and sing to the stars.

Guess who we’re planning to invite!

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, November 16, 2003