January 3, 2025

The Complexity (what I refer to as the texture) of Life

This is a photo of Michael Whiton, eldest child of Jean O. Whiton.  If you knew our mother, you know whose eyes he inherited.  Picture was taken by Linda Boardman.  

    I did not take pictures today, nor was my brain very able.  So tonight you get a poem I wrote 25 years ago that is more spirited than I could write tonight.

I Believe in Color

 

I believe in red

the changing forever-ness

of red.  A pure rich red:

cotton tee shirt red,

berries on the bushes in the

dead of  New England winters,

cherries in June next to a

slab of ripe brie.

Magenta, a little redder than wine,

blood as it begins to dry,

the curtains I always wanted,

floor length heavy velvet.

Orange red on the skins

of a tangelo; blood oranges

in a light blue porcelain bowl on

a small table near stark white walls.

Dusty rose of an old flannel duvet,

the height of fashion in 1980.

I believe in red.

 

I believe in blue.

The ocean, a million different

shades in a day,  dependent

on wind,

            on clouds,

                        the sun’s angle,

                                    how tired my eyes are.

The blue of a winter sky

the blue of a clear summer’s night.

Midnight blue,

            dark, dark,

                        dark, not quite black.

Stars poking holes into it.

The blues of the Aegean;

all that clean white alongside

blue with no other color

added.  No leanings

towards green or gray.

I believe in red, blue.

 

 

I believe in yellow.

The most marvelous of all yellows;

the sun high in the sky in July.

Washed out, but so bright.

Hot.

The yellows in late August.

The full heads on flowers.

Yellow ends the summer,

begins the fall.

Yellow has a hard time

staying pure, not letting

blue or red seep

dribble into it.

The yellow of lemon or a Baltimore oriole

Yellow of a Ford Pinto

that down shifts when

you turn on the air conditioner

I believe in red, blue and yellow..