by Marc Gilbert24 Sep 2014
I’m dumb to leaves and prairie grass;
a million colors can't be named.
Wind conspires with shifting light
to humble language, exult sight.
I watched a bunting taking flight
from black to blue turn as I looked.
A list of shades between the hues
would burst the bindings of a book.
A spectrum spanned, a moment took,
a world encompassed in a blink
and all I ever hoped to know
vanished when I stopped to think.