My kitchen walls are golden yellow,
the color of Crenshaw melons,
so I can have sunshine
even on the gloomiest of days.
At dawn, the kitchen
is scented with the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee:
the scent of spices and the fragrance of bread baked the previous day
linger in the air.
I take an orange from the basket on the blue-granite counter,
savoring the citrus smell,
as I peel the skin from the fruit.
I sit at my place at the butcher-block table
covered with books, and papers, scattered or piled
in fragile hills, the detritus of a writer’s life,
an invitation for feline hide-and-seek.
The computer rests, waiting for the cue to come to life.
My words are created in a vortex of disorder,
but only when my soul is calm.
NaPoWriMo, Day 11 Prompt: “An abstract, philosophical kind of statement closing out a poem that is otherwise intensely focused on physical, sensory details.”