Life buds impatiently in enfolded palms.
Fat little hands on dough-rolled arms
Pinching and grabbing curiously.

Now bundled and folded into sturdy arms,
Wondering into melting brown eyes,
An entire life sings back a question.

He breathes in the sweetness.
Joyfully cupping at overflowing cheeks,
Memorizing thankfully with calloused hands.

The rebirth of Spring is green by name.
T'is blue that the skies and seas shall claim.
Orange is but foliage subdued,
Or an aged sun then to death be wooed.
The Color of hatred, it is red,
As of passion and the warring dead.
Life is light while Death is gloom,
Like the stark of night against the moon.
The grave contrives a contrast'd hue,
But dying is to dull what's shaded new.
For all colors are painted to give
A hue on which mirrored life must live.
Without their blushed beauty, we would gaze
On a world of dark and hopeless days