White in a field of Red, Green and Brown

There she lay in the field of flowers,

Warm sunny day.

Soft, sweet smell of the grass;

Earthy, warm mud and the almost sweet

Ever-present nectar of flowers.

Ripe air, beckoning;

Like a butterfly to a flower.

The perfect scene of blissful co-existence.

Peace.

A field of pretty colors, and white shone the brightest.


Her arms feel the flowers,

Palms outstretched feel the sun's warmth,

And the soft caress of petals.

Slightly broader, tapering towards the top;

Small little petals, so fragile.

The center, a little wet,

Tastes sweet, with a pungent aftertaste.


The grass, soft like feathers with dew,

The edges are sharp like blades,

But this crispness is a welcome incongruity,

In the otherwise mushy, warm mud.


A field of green, red, and brown around her,

But all she could see was white.


Her back's wet with the mud's caress,

Brown, like the color the sun yearns to see on her.

He's shining, bright, loud, hot;

But the brown is only destined to be a temporary stain.

Her mind's in many places,

All devoid of color,

All resplendent white;

But they smell delicious, these places.

Smells that come alive,

Unlike colors that are forever unborn.

She turns over, back to the Sun's heat

Oh, overbearing lover, couldn't you dim the light;

when you knew, there isn't any in her sight?

Her face is in the mud.

A cheek is stained, brown with green flecks.

The smell is earthy,

Fresh, yet desperate;

Like when the water tries to escape the mud,

Coaxed out by the sun.

The sun likes the mud only a particular shade of brown.

She breaks a little flower,

Pulls it close and inhales.

The scent of sweet nectar, of ripeness,

Of promise, of birth.

It's tentacles tickling her nose,

Caressing her.

Dead white flower on the young ripe white.

"Blanche!"

She hears her familiar call,

Gets up and runs to the house.

27 paces, then stops.

Hands out, the hard brown walls,

Smells like the old, musty corner of her room.

The house is the brown the sun likes,

Dry, flaky, Woody, hot.

Pity, sun can only share its heat, not it's color.

Three steps up,

The familiar smell of cherries and bread,

And a pungent, lingering odor;

"Mama".

This is a different white.

And this girl is happy, for she has true sight;

All colors equal no colors for her;

And everything she sees is white.


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