Words and Colors

Brown
the color of earth, the color of wood.
For me it will always be the color of
railroad ties,
the ones we’d count on our way to nowhere.
Walking behind you, I see the carcass of a horse
silenced by a passing train.
I point and tell you to look. Speechless, we both stop.
Dead in our tracks.
Whether we’d find a pheasant, a fox, a thousand words,
or nothing but a rusty brown spike,
we found it together.
You and me.
I miss those trips to the end of the world.

Blue
like the sky.
I remember each afternoon
watching out the window at the dark horizon,
waiting for the clock.
The short hand
finally pointing down, and the long one pointing up,
I’d hop on my bike.
Whizzing past the tulips,
I’d meet you at the corner
after your long day’s work.
Neither of us points it out,
but we both hear the silence growing
as we journey the short distance home.
My bright blue bicycle trailing behind you and your lunch box,
we’d sum up our days in a few short words.

Green
as grass
once taller than me.
You first. Then I’d follow,
silently placing my tiny feet where yours had been.
You stop and motion for me to come closer.
Crouching down, you point out the birds
flying overhead. Magpies you say.
You tell me we can catch one and teach it to talk.
Someday you say.
These massive, deep green fields
we’ve walked so many times
are now the words we cannot say,
the same short color of life
that we cut and harvest.