Two astronomers factored everything in
and colored our universe beige.
Like taking all the paint
and mixing it up.
A featureless color,
undramatic,
without poise,
not the cosmos we see
reflected in the night.
I thought, is life like this?
Is my life beige,
factoring everything in?
All the moments and pauses,
working and traveling?
Does it deserve this appraisal?
Does the universe have such a face?
And I concluded,
nothing is beige!
Everything shines with dysfunctional glory,
a blaze of presence,
cold and heat,
vivid reds and ochers,
color streaming through itself,
love feeling hate,
the confusion of discovery.
I’m not composite brown,
but a rainbow spinner!
A windsock in love with wind
and the rising sun.
Perhaps I’m topaz blue,
but that’s another dream.
My life isn’t beige.
The world with its explosions
doesn’t look brown.
The air I breathe
has never been stale.
I hold up the heavens
with my hands,
and never find the same moment again.
Nothing is beige.
The roll of creation
is in magnificent color,
like the gift from my son
of a rainbow spinner.