Synesthesia

Synesthesia

The sun is yellow, bright as egg yolk,
but so is the sundial, the candle, and its light.
Blood may be red, but so too, roses, ropes,
rumors, borrowed and broken things.

I can hear time's swift passing, its hollow
whistle, as of wind through a canyon,
seconds crackling like a brisk fire, wrapping
paper ripped from a long-awaited gift.

I feel the weight of gathering shadows
as evening draws itself closer, its gray
shawl clutched by a frail hand. A scent
of resignation, of damp wool and camphor.

And this, the doctor asks, his hand moving
over me, as if searching for what is lost.
I say it's the taste of iron, of ash, the sound
of a white wing cutting through blue air.