how many changes seen: chance days nights, the grays of violent and tame mixed in the time's confusion dreamed plans, wished hopes without cease no single piece of life sought without delusion and yet have loved each coming, going blaze each phase, willed and thrilled to every flame that brightened the illusion then let me know death as one who foresees breath's end to seize a new beginning through the soul's transfusion mood on a string again the after rain and shine of night when mellow yellow patternings of light make rivers run through streets of mirrors bright to where the air brings thought from its seclude as though a silver magnet drew a rood about the mind's internal solitude then is the darkness gentle to my sight with glossy lamps to toss me into flight and give to sleep the freeness of a kite that after storm can rise in amplitude above the clinging wet still unsubdued to sail in lonely splendor wind pursued time is a palette each day has its color radiates each day its own color on the wheel endlessly and they are wrong who say all colors are gray they are blind or else unimaginatively well I remember the primary days the reds and yellows and blues those brilliant saturated hues each its own bright self intensively a day red as a ripe warm plum on the mouth staining chin and blouse with summer while leaves on a red tree flamed in crimson joy shamelessly and there were other reds for feathers dipped in blood to sign youth's honor on a windless sky running over rooftops most solemneyed earnestly or red for something velvet deep over quivering flesh and trembling hair stabbing the breath with a wild commotion like coroncitas on a christmas tree ecstatically a vivid red each time coloring morning to evening canvas of that particular day connecting sleep with sleep in the intimate dye imperishably yellow was first word for gold then sun and it was always rich like the promise of a wedding ring or shining birthday coin inevitably yellow was wish more often than anything seen or heard except for the canary my father kept as his own yellow sign pure and unalloyed incorruptibly mostly it was feeling the evidence and substance in one symbol of perfection and as rare when harsh-cold-rough were there it wasn't yellow changelessly precious as treasure awarded by the gods to saint and hero like the holy grail the lost chord those unrecoverable legends fabulously blue was definite less temperamental than red more tangible than yellow like summer sigh or puff of winter air the outlines of dawn to dusk distinguishably blue was practical and necessary like the blueing used in my mother's wash like smoke water air and sky blue for everything clear and understandable unmistakably