The year they painted the world blue
was dull with tea leaf skies;
it was the same year we lost yellow,
sat despondently in front of brown traffic lights
tried to remember how once a golden sun
warmed our skin, and when red was just a warning.
We argued over green –
could it really have been so alive
that it changed with every season
and only in winter did it drop from the trees?
Our children were not the only ones to cry at this,
but even our tears were clear drops of loss
as we whispered words of purple, orange, turquoise.
No wonder we fought over the paintbrush,
pretended we were happy
and that the world was still beautiful.