for the yellow lady and KB
Her god is sunflower yellow,
the color space in the spectrum
a deity might surf—a god
of dandelions and honey,
darkening to the amber
of petals when they fade.
He says, with cynicism,
if there is a god, he is plaid,
crossbarred and patterened,
tangled in a looming
of dropped threads and sarcasm
spun faster than Clotho spins life:
That we are measured and cut is given,
but by what rule and whose scissors?
I say god, go(o)d, goddess–
however one addresses
the maker of all flowers
is the toddler my daughter was,
naked and fingerpainted,
her skin rainbowed like no promise
ever arced after a flood,
in the midst of the glorious mess she made
and laughing because of it.