Tartness of a Tarot

Luminous imagination, you might see, is the light in my eyes,
my smile tied to the airing stars over
the child's laundry dream,
cradling a revelation as big as our family's
delightful
Cherry pie.
And we were just at the table!
Oh,
to think
of it.
Sitting spoons told me of riches and forks
naively told me what was, or
Where to go. But the way was the
Plate of lonely red, lifting my spirits
for tartness of a tarot.
Unwilling to play, so foolish am I, sister says
and blue as a prairie windmill.
Medieval was my way then, and I can't
win (at chess) anymore
that hopes we
think like kings that always won, so marvelously,
their death.
Coffins bring an ashen peace soon to be wed
forever to the black, and what a questionable plague that gives us
all upon our sleep.

it is the process of
evaporating.