People always ask
“What color am I?”  
But what they don’t know
Is that they don’t really
Understand
What it is they are asking.  

Color isn’t a word
Or a notch
Spinning on a wheel.  
It’s an experience
That leaves your
Lungs useless.  

Pale sunlight
Swimming through late morning
Dust dances,
Beams of wheat rays
Enveloping everything
And nothing.  
A robin sings
And the yellow
Black-Eyed Susan’s sway,
Their smell twining with fresh daylight.  

This is nothing
But a moment
Unnoticed by most,
And cherished by the rest.    

Leaves fluorescent
Against the sky –
An expanse of crème,
Thick and white,
Fringed with grey –
Quiver in the harsh breeze.  
A bee droops in flight,
Landing in a dull, red poppy,
While petrichor drips from the clouds.  

This is nothing
But a moment
Unnoticed by most,
And cherished by the rest.    


Empty shadows,
Dancing on damp brick walls,
**** up soft lamp light,
Which highlights the rain –
Dark, indigo prisms of opal –
Shattering against the uneven sidewalk.
Baths for ducklings grow,
But  they are used only by busy shoes,
Black and polished,
Slueshing right through time.

This is nothing
But a moment
Unnoticed by most,
And cherished by the rest.    

If you were
A color
You would be
Pale sunlight,
Fluorescent leaves,
Empty shadows,
Because you are far
Too complex,
Too beautiful,
To be constrained
By a rainbow.  

You render
My lungs, my heart, my head
Pointless.