Blue feminine pure harmony is not,
My lovely beloved not-I,
Enough to make a tune. Your woven cot
Seduces me to stop and lie
Among your folds, your crystalline embrace,
And forget that true love must take
Red masculine tension torn from its place
Of war we fought for its own sake
And transform both into a symphony.
No, how can I forget our lust
Is leavened into purple love? I’m free
Because of you, my lifelong trust,
My yellow sun that brings me life and light
And searing heat that dries and drives
The grass to match its color. I find height
In rising to your summits’ knives
That do not split (alone) but (also) shears
Green patterns that transform mere raw
Materials into artistic tears
Of joy and laughter, sorrow without flaw.
I must arrange our orange counterpoints
To point out metaphors must fail
To bridge the gulf of words and heart – the joints
Can never reach and I mist wail
That all that I or any man can dare
To have is playful art to say
What can’t be said. I’m only left to share
These indigo word-thoughts of play.
Do I repeat myself? It’s harmony
In tension yet again. My art
Can only weave a rainbow honestly
As sun and rain combine to part.