consider this:

You are to me    a childhood
windmill, yellow plastic joy
clothes pins hanging
the smell of  suns’ shine

Chitimacha artist’s basket:
Woven swamp cane, split by teeth
Dyed like blue of veins

and floating.

You the coded Braille
to my fingerprints, fireflies
in a heart jar, ice in the hot
of my mouth.

You like Friday’s flames
Monday’s coffee black,
two sugars no cream:
my escape from tired.

-- Christina McClure