Not blue. Never blue.
I don’t care what Elvis thought about Hawaii
or what kind of Christmas it will be without you.
Blue is not sad or depressed or blue.
Blue is happy, sky, azure, eternal seas,
baby boys, forever in blue jeans.
I love blue, and I refuse to hand it over to sadness.
You can’t have brown either.
Brown is the earth.
Brown is suntan, coppertone,
beach babies drinking brown beer
on a brown blanket
delivered by a UPS truck.
Back away from the brown.
And you can’t have yellow. Duh.
Red is out. I need it for passion.
And righteous indignation.
Green? Not on your life.
It is the smell of freshly mown grass,
the sound of the breeze blowing
through Mother Nature’s hair,
the taste of a slightly tart margarita.
If you want to own my sadness,
then I suppose you’ll have to take
whatever color the sun becomes
in those last seconds before she falls
into the coin slot of the horizon.
Take the thousands of
red-orange-purple-mauve-fuchsias
that melt into each other
and shift and change each other
every few milliseconds
into one more sunset seen
for the first time anywhere,
just like that one I saw
the night you left,
when my tears made a
kaleidoscope of color
out of the western sky
and welled to honor
the last of the light,
the farewell to the
Bringer of
Life.
Whatever color is sent on
the last ray from the sun
at day’s end,
that is the color of sadness.
That one you can have.
Deb Moore 