Peridot Green

The flowers are spent and the leaves are fading in the garden of Peridot Green. We bundle up the cold terracotta pots and carry them inside, but they rarely survive the dark winter of our apartment. Plant and animal cells live and die at the mercy of our building’s heating system, with its mysterious noises and wild fluctuations. Oh Lily, my skin feels the way your leaves look.

We have black paint on our walls and artists that prefer desaturation. “It’s too dreary in here!” says the Albatross, in his gray feather sweater. He asked Bluebird to find some colors for his poetry, so, off she went.