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Poem

Blue

Why is it, if people are sad,
we say they are blue, 
when blue is such a happy color?
Blue are electric skies of October 
that bring cool breezy weather,
and find children joyfully
jumping in piles of dry leaves, 
playing tag on the playground,
and munching crisp juicy apples.
Blue are the eyes of the little
blond girl with golden curls
who smiles up at me from 
a tea party with her dolls.
Blue is the sparkling ocean
on a hot day in summer,
waves making little slapping noises
as they hit the rocks of the jetty, 
calling swimmers to jump in,
skip flat stones across the water,
or search for pieces of beach glass.
Blue is hyacinths that perfume the air,
and iris and forget-me-nots
in the garden in spring, and 
elderberries and blueberries 
and blueberry jam for your toast.
In the marsh a great blue heron
steps majestically toward dinner.
There are blue frogs, blue mussels, 
blue claw crabs, blue butterflies.
All are delights of nature.
How can we call blue a sad color
with such a myriad of happy blues?

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