Poetry

White

White, soft and pure, it comforts me.
Like a mother's heart - clean, unselfish,
like a child's eyes:
trusting in perfect faith.

The clean starched Sunday dresses
of little girls playing by the shore.
Or the soft soap suds cleaning clothes,
For white always seems to run away
from little children.

It is calm and smooth
like cascading layers of soft silk;
or the satiny smoothness of vanilla ice-cream.

Delicate as Victorian lace against mahogany,
Vibrant as an elegant white rose.

It is all things old and hidden
deep inside - cherished.

It does not bind or restrain,
It sets me free like a blank page
where I can spill my ideas.
It allows me to be myself.

Opening and accepting
as a mother's arms.
White

Rachel Fox