sketches in marigold
i think marigold is the color of
childhood, or at least the color of mine. memories
dipped in deep mustard, touched
gentle amber with the passages of time.
i think marigold is the color of
innocence, or at least the charade of it. rubbing
playing cards tinted ochre under my calloused
thumbs, sticking fingers in lunchtable holes.
i think marigold is the color of
childish love, or at least the high of it. mashing
buttons on the family wii, pinky promises
sworn under glow-in-the-dark stars.
and i think marigold is the color of
a time now lost, and the aftermath of wistfulness
paints the sketches in.
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