White grass
Sibelan Forrester
The Color Wheel

I've never studied art, but I know
all colors unite to make black,
deeper than mud, the underground burrow,
dark womb from which spring or some Big Bang
will fling matter back into time
from the deep fertile valley of sleep.

No matter how still it seems
once you click the lid shut
on the chilly paint box.

I've never studied theatrical design, but I see
all lights combine to make white,
bright tulip bulbs of green, red and gold,
each shadow washed with its missing hues,
the fine grains of snow wakened into brilliance
revealing a billion shadowed prisms, if
looking closely is not too painful to look.

No matter how stark it seems
when your eyes are snowblinded
by flat bright cloud and land.