I was a whimsical, interior designer, bringing colors and joy into living spaces,
Subtly changing neighborhoods and lives, like vibrant arcs the rainbow traces.

People were as dissimilar as their houses, the both of them rather fascinating,
Like flashing disparities of dazzling stars, when a pale moon is procrastinating.

My customers and I worked closely together, to gain functionality with beauty,
As evening sun associates with indigo sky, generating memories of tutti-frutti.

Fabled friends and I had dancing fun, on smooth floors of the flowery nightlife,
As bees roam golden halls of day, for the honey there's nothing else quite like.

Fond family rambled in and out of fresh days, with the loving words and looks,
And ofttimes even a surprise or a gift, like glimpses from the scenic overlooks.

I had always been charmed by backdoors, the blithe portals to the casual life,
Where all around is serene beauty and laid back, and escape from daily strife.

Each backdoor was unique, too, like the cozy nests of wild, multicolored birds,
Or blooms swaying in a world of ever golden, or the endless streams of words.

I lived in the house of trellises and arbors, with glossy green leaves overhead;
And to the porch drifted popular songs, from pink dawn to sunsets cherry red.

Spicy scents were always scattering, along gardens of my sequestered street,
Were sun stayed in tall jade grasses, and bug eyed grasshoppers would meet.

Neighbors called lemon noon and night, talking of latest novels and nostalgia,
Like the moon calls at the dark side of day, to enhance the dinner plate dahlia.

Summer was in smokeless, burning sunsets, and rosy dawn chased the mist,
When I began admiring the backdoors of my town, like a prettiest blooms list!

Mine was turquoise hued and paneled, with one giant flower pot on each side,
And full of favorite scents and colors, like rainbow after dark skies have cried.

Miss Martin's door wore dark blues, like brilliant skies when twilight is nearing,
With a paned window to the side, where vivid blooms were always appearing.

The Andersons had glass sliding doors, a wooden deck, and a swimming pool,
Living indoors and out simultaneously, except on occasions weather was cruel.

The widower Mr. Jones had a doggy door, beside his beautiful flagstone patio,
With luxuriant green grass beyond, where Bowser could frolic in its pistachio.

The King's burgundy door was always open, to friends and their young family;
And bluebirds sang to the laughter of children, as flowers preened idle vanity.

I learnt that backdoors say a lot about people, and what they love and value,
As vibrant rainbows tell much of golden promise, after all has been left askew!