this ordinary life

with crayons and in patchworked knees
it seemed that things had colour
beyond their light reflecting,
like mornings quiet steel blue grey,
and words sometimes glow soft and pink,
or that history always feels earthy and brown
and old,
and when I saw that ordinary objects
of our days
led colourful lives of their own
and I knew that lines held personality
and everywhere I looked,
everything I saw,
there was always the possibility
of beauty,
things lovely and pristine
even in their ordinary shabby shells
and in my playdo heart, I washed those
moments in watercolours soft
or bold,
and I inked the edges in waxy black,
and when the story was over and
told,
our life most ordinary
had been painted all along
and sparkled precious
and gold.


A.