I am a poet.
I bleed in violet,
and every shade of blue.

When you read my words,
the page forgets its whiteness,
and you begin to see in colour.

Language dissolves to light,
pain becomes pigment,
memory, hue.

My heart splinters into spectrum,
and somewhere inside the blue,
he moves again,
slowly, like light
through water.

You think you’re reading me,
but it’s both of us you see,
our silhouettes caught
in the same wash of colour.

And by the final line,
you are stained
with the colours
of a love
that now lives in you.

The old pine boughs,
Sway, fold, bend,
The sky’s wind tipping them low,
The tips downturned,
In the waving breeze,
But each bough holds,
Against the formidable winds.

When they fold,
The wind tells them to dance,
To sing against the voice of the breeze,
To sway like a flag,
Red white blue,
The colors of an evening sky.

While the boughs refuse to break,
They are just as a prow,
The swerving, pointed-tip of a handsome ship,
Muttering softly against the ocean,
As it carves its way,
Through the deep ocean’s blue-clear-greens.
The pine sits with its old aerial roots,
Its deep nut-brown chest swollen with pride,
Dark green needles catch some air and fly,
Still connected to the old boughs.

The old boughs watch over,
Through the night-morning-noon-evening-night,
Every storm and frost.

The old pine boughs are as great as a grain of sand,
Alone in the deep blue seas,
For no one appreciates that one old pine,
Its boughs each a prow,
For the wind and the rain.

When I met her
the flowers gave me my lines,
my world rippled new colors,
and words called to me
from the sun, moon, and stars.

White canvas
Black lines
No space for color

White is too bright
Black is not dark enough
Oscillate between the two
Less towards the light
And more towards the dark.