On Saturday nightApples from the tree by the orchard gate,Stripped of their green,Sliced white into a crust, baked,Till the house is scented with cinnamonAnd sweet brown sugarTake me backTo childhood and home, toAutumn with red and orange leavesRustling in the wind;Becoming more than food for stomach,True food for the soul. 

White on blueClouds in the sunlit sky.Baby boy's blanket against white crib sheets.Sea foam against the ocean waves.Periwinkles swirling amid white phlox.Blue bird at the feeder on a snowy day.White on blue

The trellis holds a leafless rosebush.Grasshoppers have eaten the greenLeft behind by the blazing sunAnd dry cloudless days.The grass, dry and brown, crunches underfoot.Cracks form across the thirsty ground.A rain has fallen thoughSee a drop lingering on the wrought iron? Hope.