When I Think of Color
W
HEN I think of color, it is not
Some gorgeous spectacle—it is a spot
Of crimson in a winter cedar’s heart
Set glowing there: a ruby held apart
Among clear emeralds, a liquid fire
That any wind might suddenly send higher
To set the barren forest trees ablaze:
A bright potential danger, yet it stays
A brief arrested moment on a bough
That burns with color hot as flame; and now
A vivid start, a brilliant splash of light,
And a red bird takes its glittering skyward flight;
While the startled, dipping twig that it has left
Is like my own heart, shaken and bereft.
˙19˙
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