It is not a color that comes naturally to you.
You are not one of those bright souls who glow
from the first light of dawn to the fall of night.
No, you cut your yellow out of stone each day,
precious like gold and twice as rare,
And El Dorado-like journey, cut from the jungle,
battling heat, bugs, and the natives,
mostly yourself, to reach the perfect color
that leaks into your ark seductively,
the battle never showing unless you choose,
mostly showing itself as peace,
when it is anything but.
About this poem
One of those came out of the blue poems, where I had to let it set before I could even tell you what it might be about. (but only to me. You have free reign to remake the meaning in your own image).
Depression. Love. Peace. My favorite sly color in art. I know God created it, but it has always felt impossibly artificial to me, despite the craving. Something missing, but buildable. Createable.
I have a reputation for zen-ness, which often makes me laugh. I am anything but.
From that mess, this poem