The subtle hue of yellow bursts into a palette of colors as I enter the room, it gradually spreads throughout. Their shades, vibrant and profound.
There is buoyancy evident in the rapid closing of the drawers, in the quick advance of the easels aside, and in the babel that lulls for a second,only to rise again. This time it is ushering toward one singular subject; toward me.
Among these excited waves of yellow, blue is the one I long for. You will not notice it at first, its lingering fleck; an imperceptible ombré. The tint is light, like a rhythmic wisp; evasive but earnest. I turn to my right to the yellow speck who's gradually melting into a blotch of grey. I sense it in the draw of her legs, and in her adamant cough.
'Don't worry. Take me to my haven.'
And she does. She takes my suppressed hand and guides me to my blue wisp. The spectrum is now an unrestricted cerulean all over as I am sat on a chair and given a brush.
Today I show the world what I cannot see, paint a world they never saw. Today I marvel at the beauty of colors after spending years in grey.
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h a i m i s h
Poetry. . . haimish; moon talks, and alleyed pyols. . . . homes a collection of snippets from the times I feel most at home. prose/poetry
