sketchbook #2

If I told you what this is meant to be, 

you would laugh -- and by you, 

I am thinking of a specific person. 

So I will not tell you about the body, 

the seeds, the rooting, the strong cornerstone. 

I do not know if I believe what I believe anymore. 

Instead, I will point out the blue against the black, 

the interesting twist of turquoise against orange, 

the comfort of brown.  I will make you look at the green, 

yes, you would ask you to look at that a long while. 

Then I would take you back to Howe Elementary School, 

that huge art classroom in the basement.  

The teacher, whose name you cannot remember. 

I would take you back to the day 

when you were five and saw the color wheel.

When she talked to you about 

primary colors and secondary colors.

I would take you back to that exact second 

when you learned that green 

is made by mixing blue with yellow. 

How you folded the paint together and saw it happen,

this magic alchemy rolling together in so many shades. 

And I would ask you to remember that now, 

that green is made by mixing blue and yellow,

that newness springs -- in one quick twist -- 

from the deepest sadness finding its light. 

That's all it is, this lifetime.  

Making green.  So lay it on the paper, 

a big first grade blob of blue 

and turn to the brightness in your life --

that saint, that sanctuary, 

the new song that won't stop spinning.

Turn to the poet on Duncan Street, open that favorite book, 

eat three slices of warm pork tenderloin. 

Walk to the tree, hold the baby, 

do whatever it is, find whatever it is 

-- your yellow--and slather it in.  

Then start stirring, 

swirl one into the other, 

your sadness and your hope, 

until the new hue feels just right.