Oh, to walk up to a branch,
and press myself into its leaves,
to travel up its twisting trunk,
to the top, where wind blows free.
Oh, to hang until I’m gold!
and then wane until I’m red!
and to drift down here – old -
just as science teachers said…
But oh the flight! and the ascent!
and the fall through colors deep!
and all the smell of autumn’s scent,
where science never creeped.
When I stare at your red back,
and your little legs which move,
at your dots, so black, and black,
and your wings, whispering their tune,
I marvel at the master’s touch,
and reflect on my high school,
when I sat in class, just after lunch,
and heard science teachers rue,
that we cannot dream in color,
but I say, we can and do –
for there never was a color,
as beautiful as you.
