We laughed, she didn't

Purple purple hills rise above the daily quotient,
little peaks of man-made spires grouse through
bare trees in winter just past white solstice now
silent still like an old song promising redemption

but there is no redemption now only icing white
on a cake that will soon collapse upon itself
complete. Not as bad as it seems, celebration
often lifts the mood, always creates a moment

of noise profound in its distraction. We blow the
noisemakers to confound the laughing children
in a closet with two sliding doors, mayhem from
the packaged diapers strewn on floors, blowing

a cheap plastic horn to torment one gleeful sleeper
on a tan bear stuffed, a purchase that annoyed her.