Smells like baked scones

The day I decide to sort my sock drawer is the day the phone rings 10 times to tell me of your demise.   I have seven pairs of dark blue socks, several of abstract design and one green knee high with black hoops (cost $30) a hole in the right foot.   Some official, probably police, called first, announced your death in breathy voice said ‘hospital… but nothing could be done’   I like to wear the knee highs or the green and purple stripes feel a bit out there, member of a club My rebel mum, you said.   The next caller and the next after that and the next after that said He was doing what he loved. One EVEN said, His art consumed him.   It was JK6 who filled me in. He said you had finished your best piece ever. Look out for it rolling on freight all over Queensland, back of beyond   like the others it will make it to LA The outrageous flares, vivid colours fit for angels. Like he knew. He said.   He said you were flying high, then Icarus-like forgot the rules, leant back, punched overhead power lines …melted man atop the car. FAME is yours   I'd celebrate wearing those loopy socks. If it didn't hurt so much     This Brown Pot   smells like baked scones. On my tongue it would be delectable. Close up I see yellow petals chase the girth of the sun, hear clustering butterflies, tissue wings open, called by a silent spirit to soaring flight. I roll my fingers over its lip, trace earthen skin, raised gritty bits. Is that a petal? A ballooning bottom too wide for my fingers to span I think I meet yours still wet from the clay. Later I will sit the pot on my desk filled with red geraniums, variegated blue and pink wallflowers I’ll let it breathe devotion, your heart work Imprint your words of love on my page.