Looking, you lean
outside the window,
gaze reaching past the glass,
sprouting grass after
longed for rain turned
the dust and detritus into
earth again, red shoots
the due of this broken
instrument, perception pared
before you first opened
your eyes. Green is near
the border where the bandwidth
confuses, blues and reds instead.
The spectra that you separate
cling quiet to their frequency
while words parse that
past what you can know.
So when I speak of the greens
in blade or leaf I lose
the truth in translation,
my every thought approximation,
each expression an imitation of
the things people see and say,
so happy to greet each other,
so warm and freely they speak,
every color alive allowed.
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