Could you use me like the color blue--
to pool in deep places,
to color the undersides of things,
to stripe shadows on the road,
to make shade?
Hard as I try
I can never seem to be fizzy or giddy or flip--
alight with canary yellow bliss--
So let your eye seek me for rest, for peace,
in the hazy blue of stones
or the cornflower umbrella of sky.
Let me be the long ripples on water for you.
I can never be flirty and pink for you,
But I can be as magic as the flecks in an opal
or have the flutter and flash of parrot wing
or be coy as a gecko's flick of turquoise tail.
As mysterious as a veil of rain.
Since I could never be sultry and scarlet for you,
let me be the cool drink of water
in Paul Newman's eye.
Since I can't be fiery and fearless for you,
let me be hopeful as the blue bubble
trapped inside ice
or the blue tinting folds of snow.
Let me be like that last stroke--
Van Gogh's final touch to his wild iris,
Or the tender vein at the temple
of Mary Cassatt's child
that gives her life.
Let me be that dab of blue on Monet's pond for you--
the one that's lost in the dizzy swirl
of a thousand other specks of paint--
Until you step so close, the pond itself is gone
and then you'll find me--
a little bit of blue.
Two of Chris' pictures
from China.
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