Sea-Glass

My flammable eyes burn to learn


about the colours not yet named.


Like
 this green in between greens


blotted in patches on the leaves


of these unexpected airport trees.



You know, 


when a green is dark


enough to be a doorway?


'What do I call this shade of murk?'


I whisper, but the ferns just smirk,


not spilling their secrets today,


no way.


In this breezeless dome, they sway. 



And what to call 
that mystical hue


that filled my plane window view


as clouds disintegrated into blue?


Or
 the colour of my determination


to set up a life in a new nation,


addicted to displacement?



My no-control soles arch to march


into the next quest, my shoulders


and neck rounded with curiosity,
 so


I am a bowling ball along alleys


of unknown cities, looking for pins


of meaning to strike,


I am the blurred spokes of a bike.



My eyes close to remember yours,


two maps of swirling stories told


in emerald sea-glass.


Before,


you asked why I was goodbying here


as we sprayed weed-killer tears 


onto the grasses of our last year.



Well,


all I can say


is the wind told me there’s a way


to discover the words


for the colours of the songs of birds,


and plane-skies and leaf-shades


and first sunrise rays, by basking.


Slow attention as a form of asking.


And how could I say no to the wind?



I can picture your fellow 


nomad irises glistening.

When we finally reconvene 


to share & care & stare, 


listening,


I will find even better words

to describe them 


than
 emerald sea-glass.