Spectra
Sunset:
The last of Gramma’s favorite colors is Orange
It’s the color of the carpet in the house Papa built
of the yarn-woven monarch that guards her sleep
the color of her cell phone, just in case
Sunrise:
Yellow is first to be found and doesn’t linger.
its vibrance draws the eye for just a moment,
the color of the school bus nearing our stop
color of note, of burning the dew,
of keep your eyes open or you could miss it
Just as her grandmother dressed her mother, Ada, in Yellow
so she could be spotted in the tall grasses of the field
Gramma highlights what she has chosen for herself,
a way to gather what’s important before she leaves
She told me she awoke under Gray skies
in the center of a lake, entirely hushed by fog,
no wind and no oars, only a nameless place
The current of her life has slowed.
She has never been so still
Her eyes are getting tired,
there is no delineating Orange from Yellow
Yet she is very much alive, still wandering the fields
Still keeping an eye out for her daughters
I’ll choose the color Yellow for my gramma’s death
it won’t be what she would have chosen for herself,
she doesn’t think it so important.
I borrow her neon sticky notes,
color coding all I never want to lose
I too, awaken in the midst of Gray silence,
a chilled evening that won’t yield to me.
I look through the webbed panes to the fields.
I hope to see her, aglow in the distance
