white fruit watching the moon rise

i am always in my arm chair
or a chaise lounge,
sometimes watering my shrubs
but only if i can reach them.
otherwise i read, and am often seduced by a book,
embarking on a secret affair with each page
as i finger it's edge.
when the air is dry as in a drought,
my shrubs become a flight
of brittle stairs which i climb with a white rose
in my hand, looking to solve actual mysteries.
what i find most clearly is that
i am inspired by central figures, those large
cubist personalities always at ease in traffic,
steering toward facts rather than faith,
wanting to show each one a flower before i pause to solve a riddle.
if it's summer, a fragrant scent will be painted
on my nose and the only evidence it's from a
fresh rose is the petal inside my mouth.
when it's winter, a nearby beach is closed, all the people
are painted black, and the sign says NO SWIMMING.
a life guard is on duty, but only to ensure there is no nudity.
my white can become snow or a star or the moon and sometimes
it will remain a rose.
like a watercolor, i can make it become what i want,
the colors wrestling, running, and caressing each other.
before it is eaten, i would sign and date a basket of white fruit
and present it to you while watching the moon rise.
that's a fact.