Birthday Card
It was your birthday like every year
colored pencils to paper
(what knives are to skin)
you told me green was your favorite color
—you didn’t have one
I know that now
but I didn’t know that then—
so I tore up the backyard
ripped leaves from maple trees
scooped moss in mighty handfuls
fistfuls, pocketfuls
to give to you
you lied because colors don’t shine
for old shuttered eyes
closer to glaucoma than clarity
bleeding monochrome
the dull and dim
the world without harpsichord tones
on rolling hills born into richness
of flavor
of color worth witnessing
on the page and in your palms
you are running out of birthdays
