A Poem

                                        This Color Thing

Why can we see color?  Why is it here?

If everything were shades of gray

wouldn’t our picture be as clear?

But instead we see a spectrum—a wide array

of light—striking everything that can be seen

with multivariations that make our sight

a visual elation of something more than white.

We swim in the saturation of blues that cause the clouds to float

in the lavender height that turns orangish red at night.

We smile at the greens that luscious gloat

from plants whose tinctures sometimes dance with just a change of glance.

Vivid chromas paint tomato reds, crocus yellows and deep sea teals,

while tiny rainbows flee within the whites of shells and pearls—

both at once adazzle dimish beryls.

The cast of brilliance also screams from things that fly and crawl and swim—

the acromatic black of penguins, bats and seals

for instance stark contrasts against the winsome gilds

of parakeets and the backs of flies

the shades of which are like the dyes

and hues of things that dream their colors’ names—

like gold and silver, orange and peach and lime,

salmon, copper,  indigo, wine, ivory and cream,

the royal blue of robes on kings, and the gooish green of slime.

Think about the tasty red of cherries

and the blues and tints of other berries

that share their color coats with emerald and ruby gems

as well as with the lilac tones that walk in eggplants

and also run through flames.

The panoply of color demands an explanation;

it’s so all over in underrated names.

The optic experience is so intense

that we cannot help but sense

it isn’t chance

our eyes can see the hues of our habitation.

We simply see that this color thing must be caused by a designer

who is concerned with our sensation.

 

 

Mark Absher

Copyright 2007