A Blue Color

 

They call me the color Blue,

And that is what I am to some—

With countless shades and hues

To stand alone,

With many, or just a few.

 

Inside of me is anything

To make an image real.

 

I am the cold of ice

That hardens over water,

And the heat of flames

To soften and release the flow

Of stiff and rigid things.

 

I am the joy and quickening pulse

Of sprightly spring days

That spark and skip

In a winter-weary heart.

 

I am the ghostly pallor

On the face of death.

 

When in a velvet cloak,

I coax a royal view.

When in a garden bed,

I’m quite a different hue.

 

I can stand alone

To contrast or complement others,

Or I can blend unnoticed

With many other colors

To make a bold, new statement

Or just to make a mess.

 

I am the color

Of a worn and tattered blanket

A toddler keeps close

For security and rest.

 

When coursing through your veins,

I am the color of life,

Though so little notice is given

Until I spill or there is pain.

 

I am the color Blue,

With countless shades and hues.

I am what you see

To make an image real.

 

But, am I any of these—

Or all?

Or, am I truly

Nothing at all?

 

 

 

BBP 213