Lucinda Trew

color me pigeon

unremarkable gray, without the vibrant display
of tanager or jay, the allure of pigment and plume,
the strut and trill of birds who’ve been around
             the world a time or two

I am a homebody who mates for life, sees no reason
to migrate across oceans and time zones, span
an equator for the promise of better seeds
             better season

I am the color of dusk and fog, pedestrian crosswalks,
miserly cloud – I am a drudge and a nester who blurs
into crowd and curb and window ledge –
             lackluster

in ways of conversation, revelation, fitting in with flocks
I am gray – the color of ash that remains after the flash
             of feathers and fireworks

yellow

my father’s favorite, forsythia
             grows by magnitudes each year

daffodils pierce earth and frost and expectation
             each spring a fertile reckoning

yarrow’s gilded feathers fan bitter aromatic
             each breeze a battleground

yellow is a strident shade
             the mad raucous of spring

a frenetic, drunken plunge into the deep
             end of the season

I prefer columbine, phlox, trillium
             a pastel progression, an easing in

but he has no patience for preludes, pacing
             himself, leisurely blooms

he is drawn now to the brashness of yellow
             its warning sign of hazards ahead

curves and sharp turns, the rage against time
             and forsythia’s blaze

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As a 10-year-old summering with family in the Adirondack Mountains, Lucinda Trew decided she needed to move to NYC and become a songwriter like Carole King. While she didn’t make it to the big city, she did marry a musician, and loves to experiment with sound, meter and rhythm in poetry.