Colors


So much of life is color ó the color of a place, the color of a time, the color of a season, the color of a memory, the color of a mood. And the color of each is made of all the other colors, in infinitely subtle degrees. The color of grief. The color of a smile. The color of the path that leads to a loved oneís door. The color of the sky at dawn. The color of the stars. The color of an old womanís broom. The color of her apron and her shoes. The color of her hands when they have ceased to move. The color of a letter in a drawer. The color of windows. The color of a fragrance almost gone.

The streets are bathed in color. The people on the sidewalks are colors seeking other colors. When shop doors open, waves of color rush out to sing in the open air. They rejoice in the color of lips, the color of eyes, the color of wings, the color of a thousand gentle kisses.

In the harvest of the senses, color is the workmanís song. The color of triumph. The color of regret. The color of his restless tongue. All through the night, dreams rise from colored fields. The color of mist. The color of flesh. The color of bones. There is no edge to color. There is only the color beyond ó and that is the harvest of miracles, of which color is only one.

October 14, 2006



















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