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Poem

If they had told me black
I would have nodded back,
that solemn knowing kind,
in absolutes, you find.

But now they say it's green,
by conjecture and unseen,
a faintly turquoise hue
perhaps will match my yew.

(Full needled in my yard
It’s stubby trunk most hard;
It’s top of oval bloom
renounces Winter’s gloom)			

But later then they say
it turns to red someday
and so with stars it goes                     
with us to old age woes                   

And so I sit and think
while sipping on my drink
am I a red or green
in someone’s color scheme?          

Or do I get to choose
and wager not to lose 
of all the reds and greens
in my garden, I have seen

I think I chose my rose
It’s scent across my nose.
Has never failed me yet
so red is what I bet.

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