Windchimes from the balcony, one wood, the other metal
the chirping of small birds, the scurrying of squirrels
these are are my pigments, my soundscapes
roar of furnace, hum of refrigerator
my own breath, in and out, my own heartbeat at quieter moments
They have created a radio station for me
Monk and Mompou, guessing at my deepest desires
These too are pigments, as vivid as the green of my succulents
as brown as the smell of coffee, of onions carmelizing in the pan...
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