Hymn of Color

Warble of the sky, what color would our
invisble field of mind don if oxygen were
rust red?  How would shade asunder
against that peeling paint?  Would grass
dry and blaze in turgid yellow?  Would
ocean by crushed snails subsume?
Goethe’s wheel in check, fraught with
mystery, unhidden, and plain parcels
of rainbow strutted as a player of our
stage.  I didn’t see his gaze.  His pen
had some treasties wrote and wept,
tears of only vortex and color, a soft
ύμνός beckoning our imagination.

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