Orange When it is time to begin to think of dying, nothing is too minuscule to mourn. In my case it was freshly from the fire I stumbled into winter, shut the door, and lying back, a Lady of Shalott to my own life, gazed out at a procession threading the pallid January hills. But at the edge of vision something flashed. An orange tablecloth hung on a line rigid as a sheet of frozen fire. Rage's ringmarks on the tree of life ask to be etched forever. Failing that, color takes up where characters leave off, pays its homage to the draining glass. The tomcat stayed out first for one night, next two, then a week, and finally was clean gone, swallowed up in summer's greeny gullet. Already we forget the way he looked, doubt his existence. But the orange pelt ignites its emblem in the mirror's eye. -- Rachel Hadas