I used to like blue, the roaring ocean, always in motion, brave, mighty, and free, moving into whatever it wants to be, unsuffocated, but now I see, that the only thing that holds it, is the love separated by a chasm, so its movements become longing little spasms,

Green,Green, let me see, a vine wrapped freshly against a dark crackly tree, a babe of a plant, a blanket of moss on a cold rocky slant, a large field of grass, on which running buffalo pant, a canopy of shade struck hard by the sun, a weed which grows on grave that had been barren , a thorn for a rose, stains on toes, the remnant of what froze, holding its spot to all its brothers rose, again, green.