We hunted him as a stag across his fields, trophy we called him red man, color of Ares, gods sacrificed on our altar, his rivers run with his spirit. I am white bereft of color, barren, a glare a desert stripped of life. It is I who wear Cain’s mark, plucked from the garden the sweet taste fades my lips are dry. You are black an amalgam, green of the grasses in summer field, orange of sun singeing an ocean surf ablaze, blue of a crystal sky purple of robes of Nubian kings, brown of the soil fertile and yielding.
I still have grave doubts about designers in general, clothing houses in more particular, and above all furniture.
You have to ask if the person who designed this chair was somehow incapable of sitting, or simply wanted something that looked artistic, to hell with the comfort of its occupant.
And some designers take this to extremes, hoping perhaps for some measure of eternal recognition. Take for example the Adirondack chair, found throughout the northeast on porches and in yards, in a myriad of colors, that no one ever seems to sit on, for good reason.
In the heart of winter, then, which seemed unending I would stare out at the maples barren branches piled in ever tottering snow and dream of palm trees and a warm ocean breeze.
In heart of winter now, such as it is, all I see are endless palms and many Southern Live Oaks, their branches piled under a heavy burden of sagging Spanish Moss and I dream of the simple beauty of the maple leaf shifting from its deep green to its endless shades of autumn beauty.
We hunted him as a trophy stag across his fields. We called him red man, color of Ares, gods sacrificed on our altar. His rivers run with his spirit.
I am white bereft of color, barren, a glare, a dessert stripped of life. It is I who wears Cain’s mark, plucked from the garden the sweet taste fades. My lips are dry.
You are black an amalgam, green of the grasses in summer field, orange of sun singing an ocean, surf ablaze, blue of a crystal sky, purple of robes of Nubian kings, brown of the soil fertile and yielding. Your eyes see all.
First published in The Right to Depart, Plainview Press, 2008
It is an admittedly odd sign of my age that I recall clearly when bathrooms were tiled mostly in monochrome, black and white, and it was a mark of quality when each tile was hexagonal, a hive of ceramic cells, impenetrable.
Now tiles are square or rectangular, come in a rainbow of colors, often intermixed to achieve looks unimaginable back in my youth, and walls a painted with any color you can imagine, not the eighteen shades of white from which my parents had the choice for our new house.
But change can be for the better, and in proof of that you need only look around and see that bathroom fixtures are mostly white, occasionally black, not sickly green or peach, and, thank the gods, no one has avocado appliance these days.
They sat on the bench in the park looking out on the small lake, two ducks swimming slowly in circles. “Dawn is the most beautiful moment of the day, the sun chasing the moon and setting the sky ablaze, orange, crimson, flame, there is simply nothing,” he said, “in the world quite like it.”
“It is that, but it pales compared to the beauty of dusk and the setting sun retreating, the clouds painted by the master in orchid, fuchsia, and a depth of pink only the sun and clouds know,” she replied, “and each day is different.
An old monk walking by bowed, nodded and softly said, “but look to the sky on a cloudless night, see the moon reflect all the sun has to offer, all the colors in the spectrum are there if you only close your eyes and see them.”