Inhaling Indigo

I want to live in that interlude, 
 after the goodnight conk -la -ree
 of red-winged black birds 
 settling into the cattails, 
 before crickets’ chirp
  
 after birth of the nascent polliwog,
 before it sprouts legs to leap
 from the amniotic pond
 into the claws of a hawk
  
 after the peach sun ripens to pink
 on the western ledge,
 before its bruised skin
 spreads across the sky
  
 after mid-day calm 
 before the evening breeze
 quivers through silver poplars   
 until leaves murmur like
 gossips’ tongues in church.
  
 I want to live in that interlude 
 after I sat down for supper,
 before the phone’s shrill chirp, 
 before I put on this midnight dress,
 before I placed burgundy roses 
 on your casket of poplar,
 before the parlour filled with murmurs. 
  
 When I still inhaled indigo
 and exhaled champagne-pink.