COLOR

The Queries, I write in Ink. It’s not just a color

But a Question. And an Answer.

My mouth asks in colors. All the ink colors.

The response is in the blue - night sky of a late

Spring - 8pm. When the birds sing evening

Prayers out my window; perched on the ink colored

Wires that bind; Though we have forgotten,

What it means to be together.

The color ink visits me at the sea -

Dark. Delicious. The deeper I dive,

The more Indigo floats by - swirling and swishing

It’s the color of an Octopus’s ink. I think.

These are perhaps my colors. Indigo and Black ink.

Like the raven on a desert post, next to Sagebrush.

Singing the sounds of the night, where I camped

Last night, dreaming in colors.

Sometimes the color is in my ink pen,

On paper - smeared by tears that we are not

Together. My father told me that art,

Was only for rainy days. Maybe this is

Why I relish for ink stained puddles -

After a summer storm. Grease and all,

I stomp through them, in my Indigo Jumper.

Like a child in love with Blue sky,

Black Birds and a Sea, the color of

An Octopus’s Ink.