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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In the colorful region of America where I was born and raised, the colors of the rainbow were the same as elsewhere, and they amazed us always. The number of beautiful rainbow colors is said to be between five and seven. Scotty saw red, orange, and blue; green, yellow and indigo were seen by Stephen. The American flag on a white pole also flew with stars and stripes of red, white, and blue. There was never the lack of colors, but the rain showers and cool breezes were often overdue. Many winters brought us snowflakes that were clean, cold, eatable and white like all the rest. The magnolias were lively and stunning, and weeping willow trees were simply priceless. The colorful features of people were mostly shades of red, brown, black, and white. But there was something about the social ways and mores that wasn't quite right. The human psyche was consumed with complex ideas centered around color, it seemed. Caterpillars and other earth moving equipment were orange. Combines, cotton pickers, and tractors were mostly red, but the John Deeres were all green. There were other vehicles that followed, but I shall never forget my father's blue pickup truck. Dad often took us riding all over the countryside, giving us another view of the mire and the muck. On most days the sun was bright and hot as fire, and by sunset, it cooled and turned reddish orange. But for miles and miles from spring through summer, there were green fields of coveted cotton. Come Fall, those same green fields of cotton, whose leaves were caused to fall, turned white. And also by then, the fields were dominated by brown, as the bean, corn, hay, and wheat were harvested. When I pause to reflect on bygone years, I recall that there was some dismay and people generally had their say. The skies were mostly blue and earth colors mostly green, but people were real with very few areas of gray. 08272018PoSoupContest, Colored Memories, Craig Cornish
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