Pauline Craig painted her kitchen yellow.

I think, to reflect her joyous gleam,
She called the paint "Bright-Yellow,"
A smiling phrase that fits her theme.

Now, for years I learned the names of colors' gradings,
Every one, backwards and forwards,
All the hues and tints and shadings,
Though Philistines had thought them bore-words.

Lemon Yellow is not Naples,
Vermillion not Light-Red,
Orange starts with an "ah" sound,
From an Eastern bed.

Cerulean Blue is not Prussian, nor Manganese nor Thalo,
Nor Ultramarine nor Pale Cobalt, behind a saintly halo.
Alizarin-Red's not Scarlet, though it's very close to Crimson,
Truman had a secretary by the name of Stimson.

Lamp-Black absorbs more light, than if you're using Mars,
Though Ivory-Black contains itself
And doesn't stain the jars.

Cadmium Reds are light or deep or even medium,
Perhaps it's time to save your eyes
From all this tedium.

I knew her paint was not Bright Yellow,
I still recall the day,
But "bright" was all the world to her,
So truth I did not say.

Years later she approached me;

Said she always remembered how
I had taught her to see dead flowers,
To love the here and now,
To see the beauty in their dryness,
The graceful lyric of their bones,
To see their perfect, rigid shyness,
In their forms and tints and tones.

Out of the ash, the phoenix rises,
A broken heart, with face still smiling, fading in the mist,
Dead flowers' beauty still surprises,
Enhancing all that gentle death has kissed.

© 2003 ____Muldoon Elder