Poetry Plum

I wonder who it is that names the colors—

those six thousand eight hundred and thirty-nine

hues and tints and shades, the possibilities of paint?

Who wraps and ties these splinters of the spectrum

in tidy packages of words—alchemy, nankeen, tassel—

packages that split and spill their rainbow

contents all across the Earth—lacewing, picnic,

charisma, quest.     I want that job.

Can I be paid in colors—impetuous, carefree,

frolic, rain? Colors would lap around my ankles—

rapture, bubble, nautilus—and rise buzzing into air

as clear as gambol gold—bee and butter-up

and nuance vanishing among the trees at dusk,

the deepening shades of oakmoss, refuge, lark. 

Slowly all the syllables of color leave the sky—

moonraker, lantern light, inkwell, stone

and sleep comes murmuring

the full spectrum of imagine—

enigma, daydream, ponder, soar.