Season of colour

To be alive is to experience colour,

A gift so given from our mother.

Born into a bed of red,

Her love enveloping us as she bled.

Seasons change as we grow older,

The leaves do change a golden ochre.

Blue and purple, yellow and pink,

The sky above our greatest link.

A cosmos above, so vast and unending,

Not green with envy, as the money we’re spending.

With all this colour around, infiltrating our lives,

I can’t help but wonder, what colour am I?

To describe my spirit but with one,

To fit each version of me, I do become?

The answer is simple, the longer I ponder,

I’m not just one, but all of the colours of wonder.

Complicated and messy, a hue for each mood,

To say anyone is just one, a perception would be skewed.