Warm Poetry in Winter

I woke in the dry, dark winter morning, gazing at the barely dawn black window from under a mountain of bedclothes, listening to the heater roar its morning serenade - and somehow began writing in my head about eating sugarcane on the street. I ended up with this poem, evoking a childhood moment in Nigg Village, inland from the mudflats along Guyana's north coast.

Eating Sugarcane On the Street

A pale gold stalk, fresh cutlass-peeled
in one hand; in the other, sweat as usual
and no destination in particular.
The breeze is off the sea.
Test the tenacity of teeth
to tear fresh sweetness from a stick,
reducing it to repeat waves of sugar on the tongue,
and well-spit wads of empty pulp,
lost quickly in the roadside jungle.

When you turn the corner,
you'll hit the breeze.
The stalk should last past two corners,
or two hundred steps
of rubber flip flops
shuffling daydreams on the dusty road.

I set the notebook and pencil down, noticing my blue sweater and the blue crochet blanket project lying on the desk, and thought about how the color blue, however cool it is listed on the color spectrum, is bright and warming in winter. So I picked up the notebook and scribbled one more set of lines on the bottom of the page.

Blue is the warmest color
on this winter's day; that spot
of blue between two shifting clouds
glows like the center
of a flame.

But what about red? and green?

Red is the warmest color 
on a winter's day;
the cardinal's breast that flames
out of the wind-stripped tree
is summer's fruit distilled

Green is the warmest color
on a winter's day
those young sprouts leaning sunward
at the hungry window
burn with spring's brief promise
of long summer.

Time to start getting breakfast....