Red Room Where the Writers Are

Amber Sumac Tree gives way to Amber light that fills the dining room  with a golden glow, as I slice up Amber yams for dinner, that become wedges of promise, drizzled in Amber oil. Amber ring on my middle finger casts a gentle hand over the Amber hair on my dogs head. The traffic light tells me to proceed with caution, Amber, be on the Alert. Amber dahlias wilt in a blue jug where Amber tints of paint grace an old blanket that covers the Amber wood. The Fuchsia hedge turns Amber as the days conspire to Winter. The land is full of Ambering. The heather and grass turn a distinct shade of Amber, a soft, bent, cast downward glance kind of Amber. The cows are Amber too, in their rambling, their graze is limited, their movement confined. I put on sunglasses that cast a permanent Amber glow on what I see. All is softened, nothing is harsh. I refuse to take them off. I walk down aisles that normally appear a glaring white and all I see is Amber, a woman in Amber stockings puts Amber cookies into her basket and smiles, her teeth stained with gold, her lips a new shade of Fall, her apples plunging downward, she walks with an air of descent into a world where all is doomed, where Amber only means another step into demise, two seconds before the rot sets in.