Anne Sees Red
Every color gives her its story:
her reds leap into elk antler skies,
scraped from the blood of cave mud,
to burst over bald mountain fires.
Her greens drip from redwood fogs to
frame the human hands of fields and
sharpen any line of sight that falls.
Her blues don’t spill from night skies
or rise from mid-Pacific sea trenches,
they evolve from her love of people.
Her grays emerge from sand and fog
that settles the salt air over Bodega Bay.
Her blacks ghost from midnight dreams
and the fear in men’s eyes to shade all
colors close enough to the ground to
apply any darkness they deserve.
Each color whispers among its sisters:
they shelter like a red tents in a desert,
gather all wandering sheep, lost or not.
Wolves taste no meat of truest colors.
Each shape knows where to lie down
and each shape hugs its dearest friend.
Every picture becomes a family of light.