It’s the powder room at the end of the hall
That no one else ever uses
(most likely, because it has no shower, no counter space)
This is the one I like the best
With its twin, tall, thin windows
I love the powder blue of its walls
And the way the light breathes softly
Through the frosted glass
I love the stillness that rests in that light
The reminder to be quiet and to use my eyes
Less for focusing on tasks, and more for freeing myself in beauty
I fill my open hands with cold water
Smile, and laugh at the bubbles,
Before I splash it over my face
I am diving
Into the morning
Because there is no counter,
I place my things on the window sill
Like little treasures, lit by morning light
And I tap some liquid foundation –
The size of a Himalayan bluebell –
In the palm of my left hand
Use my right hand to finger-paint my face
And I am a child and I am a painter
And I am painting myself
To look more like me
The way I paint these poems – focusing on the true colours, putting out of sight the meaningless distractions, yet doing so lightly, leaving visible the imperfections that prove that this is real, that I am real, that these words are true.
And I string all these things onto the necklace of the morning like the pearls
Of a rosary
And I hail Him from Whom all blessings flow
And I fall in love again with the Poet and the Poem
And the powder blue powder room
And the light through the frosted glass of morning
