When I was young, colors flamed
Bright greens and yellows - gold!
Now they glow in muted hues,
Deepen as I grow old.
Today I pass on the magic,
watch as my lover's child,
dark head bent in concentration,
presses her slim brown fingers
into the bowl of the spoon
she rubs on the slick side
of waxed paper that rests
on the Sunday funnies.
Her brown eyes - so different
from my green ones -
entranced, as colors appear.
The energetic boldness
of orange flippantly sings
like flame on the paper.
The comforting power of green,
hue of renewal,
hope of new beginnings.
I remember my father,
his thick fingers pressed
into the bowl of the spoon
when he taught us this trick.
How my sister, watching,
head bowed, her halo
of red curls glowing, forgot
the brown birthmark she wears
like a cape on the nape
of her neck, how she scrubbed
trying to rub it off the way
all the colors have been erased
from my father's memory
as if by some phantom
transference to waxed paper.
Previously published in the North Carolina Poetry Society's
"Award Winning Poems, 2000"
Used with the permission of the Poet.
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