The Telling Rooms Movement III
She knew how every color tasted and blue was her favorite.
Blues like moistly misty mornings,
mosquitos dancing in a haze of left-over campfire and condensation.
Blue settled softly over sloped tents
then fading into husky, grass-fed violet
the same color as lavender fields at dawn
where sheep with wool like kindness roam over the stubble.
Violet, second only to blue
and orange third only to violet;
midday skies and crushed grapes and papaya curry
swirled in a cacophony of pigment,
a tinted tornado.
Thunderous green emerges with eyes like jade set in enamel.
Lily pad green,
pine trees in the morning green,
fading into lemon-scented freshness and
spraying light like fresh juice.
Then the white.
Pillowcases hanging on the line to shed their creases.
Salt crystals on her upper lip after soaks in the sea
where jellies float as soft as snow
and rest their sting on unsuspecting knees.
peach fuzz white,
every color compressed into a single prick of white:
violet, orange, yellow, green.
Yes, blue was her favorite,
but she savored every one.