Color drips back into the world, Slowly falling on grey stone Brown grass And racing rivulets Through salt blasted cars.
Everything begins to mix Until only a watercolor, Vaguely resembling the once dead landscape, Remains. The sun shines a watery mango orange and dandelion yellow, Feathering at the edges into the turquoise sky. Unabashedly emerald grass begins to stand up tall From the cold earth, The motion of its dance in the wind captured By merely a few fluid brush strokes.
I suppose we’re dripping as well, Being bombarded by drops of colors That run down the bridge of our noses And cover our glasses until there’s nothing else to see. I wonder if there’s any vague impression of our winter selves, In the rainbow stained hues of our eyes… Or perhaps they were simply washed away by the rain.