color

The morning sun became the trembling hand

On the door to the boudoir, revealing

Bowed leaves in dazzling shades of emerald,

Bright bursts of deep lemon, orchid and white.

The shock of color rendered the sculptures

Of the dead absurd, for no eyes so charmed

By this thrilling pageant of life could think

The vibrant present was not eternal.

We walked on to the chapel, where artists

Once transformed simple tints into the folds

Of a monk’s robe, and without word or thought

Found ourselves buying pastels in a shop

And carving out a small sliver of floor

In our tiny room to play with color.

Ringing True