The color leaves of sycamore become
before they fall – the hue of wild grass
that dries to hay beneath the August sun –
these tones describe my dog. From coal to brass
her aging coat now whitens at her chin,
and fondled ripples like the desert sand
before the evening breeze: as warm within,
as fine as grit, as soft as shadowed tan.

My mind is purple but my wisdom’s green.
I don’t believe I dream in black and white.
I had to study 30 years to learn
the color of my silence. Now between
assertions I allow a little light,
and watch the spectrum of ideas return.