Palette

Palette

Although we think of spring as being green
and gold, with flowers white and pink, I've found
it's not. It's really something in between

bright blossoms and new leaves and winter's mien.
Unplowed, the stubbled fields of corn, abound
although we think of spring as being green.

The milkweed pods are open beaks I've seen
on baby birds, the ragged silk, their sound.
Or not. It's really something in between

such squawks and song like silk chiffon. Routine
surveyance of the season will confound.
Although we think of spring as being green,

the trees in distant woods are red, a screen
of russet lace aloft. Their green's renowned.
They're not. They're really something in between

one palette and another, both serene.
This single season is a middle ground.
Although we think of spring as being green,
It's not. It's really something in between.