Monday, July 4, 2016

Summer's colors #phenology

Summer is red, white and blue: the reds of a morning sun rising into blue skies and white clouds.

Summer sunrise
Summer sunrise
Photo by J. Harrington

Summer is the yellow of black-eyed susans, sweet corn, swallowtail butterflies and goldfinch males.

Swallowtail butterfly
Swallowtail butterfly
Photo by J. Harrington

Summer is the orange of day lilies, butter-fly weed, monarchs and orioles.

Summer is the sparkle of Independence Day fireworks, and of the laughter of children enjoying an endless vacation. It's an evening's twinkle of fireflies, distant stars and campfire embers burning into our memories.

Summer is the lilac of common milkweed blossoms and the purple and grape of day's end sunsets.

Summer is white blossoms growing into red and blue fruits on chokeberry and serviceberry bushes.

It's red raspberries, blue blueberries, saffron and orange peaches and the golden tans of fruit cobblers and pies.

Spring's departure left us awash in green. Autumn's exuberance waits in time's wings. Winter's monotonic white is long gone but will come again too soon. Come, let's count Summer's warm colors while we can.

MEN SAY BROWN


By Henry M. Seiden


On the radio this morning: The average woman knows
275 colors—and men know eight. Women say coffee,
mocha, copper, cinnamon, taupe. Men say brown.

Women know an Amazon of colors I might have said
were green, an Antarctica of whites, oceans of colors
I'd stupidly call blue, fields of color, with flowers in them
I would have said were red.

From women, I've learned to love the browns,
the earths, the dusts, the clays, the soft colors, the colors
brought out from the mines, hardened ones,
hardened in fires I would call red; the colors of the furies;
the reconciling colors of the cooling ash.

By myself I know the evening colors when the sky goes
from blue to another blue to black—although it's a lonely,
whitish black sometimes,
like the color of sleep—
the way dreams are lit by the light that's thrown
from nowhere on the things you find in them. Last night
there was a turtle, I would say it was brown or green,
or it was a snake, mottled, a kind of grey, disguised
as a turtle, red spots as if painted on the shell,
a palish greenish underside—vulnerable, alone
swimming in water I would say was colorless.

I woke to the pale colors of the morning—no one
has a name for those: the white-rose white you see
through the white of the curtains on the window,
the milks, the creams, the cream a galactic swirl
before it turns to brown when your wife stirs it in the coffee,
the faint drying oval on the silver of the spoon.


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