Power of Color
“While painting, I feel a power of color in me
that I did not possess before.” —Vincent van Gogh
They talked in a fresh wash of sunshine.
She led him through her garden.
Blushing tomatoes, cucumbers almost ready,
Bordered by marigolds.
They fondled poems and paintings
And listened for the voice that called them to touch.
She leaned against The Starry Night.
Touched his face with the tips of her fingers.
The soft pressure of his lips controlled her tongue
And it believed the wet lie his tongue was telling.
His seed took root in her soul.
Sprouting green thoughts.
The red of a kiss. The gold of fingertips
On skin. Gazing blue eyes.
While writing poems, she feels a power of color in her
She did not possess before he touched her.
A rather different version of this poem appears in my collection Turtle Woman & Other Poems
