Even the Night

Even the Night

Not white.

Not black.

Even the night has color.

I am red.

Burning fragile, tender glowing,

I will open, pomegranate, watermelon wide with want.

I am green.

Bursting fierce, insistent in spring,

I will grow. The earth can’t hold me. I will tear through bark and soil.

I am pink.

Blooming blushing, awkward fingers pin on rented jacket,

I will dance as matching ribbons spinning flutter in my hair.

I am blue.

Breathing deep, shimmering as I rise,

I will reach the shore, cold, slipping between lake and July sky.

I am yellow.

Beyond no, sun soaked and glorious in my yes.

I will cry till I am empty. I will laugh till I am full.

I am purple.

Berry picking in late summer.

I will bake and I will feed you. There is sugar, butter, flour.

I am orange.

Borrowing stories from my mother, as the fire turns to ember,

I will be content to hold you. I will wait until you sleep.

I am brown.

Breaking, creasing, lived in, loved,

I will bear a world of children, ground beneath their tiny feet.

I am not black.

Bring me sunset shadows, stretched longing on the ground.

I will show you where the light is, angled low in winter sky.

I am not white:

Blank paper, silent waiting.

I will write a thousand colors. I will sing myself a song.

-S R Luke