song of the silent

i could write
poems of this
cool jazz nature
for days
at a time.
rhyme
would not be necessary
or even welcome
but dispelled
at the front gate
back into
the cold rain.
color
however would
stride through
the open door
and have a
glass of wine,
dark red
especially.
though i’d not
discriminate vs.
blue
for all its
watery misgivings
or yellow
because yellow smiles.
but black
with all its
bruises
and bats
and
things of that
dark nature
can take a hike
though they will
kindly avoid
the amazon,
where green learns
how to walk.