Green wants to keep changing, hard to make it stay still, but it makes your worries stay still.
It’s said the human eye can see more hues of green than any other color. I sit here thinking about green, with turquoise, my colors of love. Scribbling these words between episodes of bounce-house supervision of children on this day in summer at work. Here in Cascadia there is no shortage of greenness in summer rains. Where I’m from in the great San Joaquin valley of California, all is crisp and dry-brown gold in summer. It is big news on the rarest of days when rain appears in the long summers.
I’ve lately heard again the myth of persephone, how the earth is barren in the months when she is in the underworld. Not available to bless the plants with her life-giving powers. And so the earth is barren during this time. The story collectors of northern Europe thought it must’ve been winter, the dead time of year. But I think it is summer. Greece is is the same climate as California, with those long, hot, dry summers, and this season is the most deadly. My early childhood observations of California’s lush winters may be my root appreciation for the color green, when the winter rains bring verdant growth back to the land.
Green, the eyes of the forest, green taking a moment to zone out and not try, look out the window at green and sink-fall into the unconscious reverie of leaves with dew, even if the dew is from sprinklers, it still does the trick. Green is branching into brain patterns brightness flashing inspiration. Green is the color of reptiles and genius and ecstatic desire. The color of the god Pan in the thicket, this glory-green is the original color, maybe the first we ever saw, telling one green from another to sift apart the multitude of species upon species together in chorus. Green is mind-thought and no-mind imagination. Other colors look better with green. I like to add many blues as the most beautiful companions of green. In fact, there are many blues and many greens. Spin with gold-yellow-amber and paintbrush-fur-brown.
Dry leaves have accumulated
in our circular driveway,
caught in a pent-up whirlwind
which cannot escape. ‘Round
and around they are pulled
in succession, convoluted
blades scraping asphalt,
one after another
in consecutive milliseconds
outside my window, dead foliage,
once living, now carnage,
leaf berating stone without relief.
O hear, it sounds like rain, a haunting
pitter-patter promising insistence,
and there it goes again, but it isn’t.
No water for the thirsty earth.
Parched, we are without abatement.
It is an illusion, a mirage to
desperate dry ears wanting
to make the hurricane of fire