rufus, rutilus, cardinalis, rubidus

If I could find a color that I felt adequately described the bright bulbs outside my window, clinging to the branches of a tree I have never seen bloom, I would not use it

Some words have no place being written —

My hands would not — most likely not — tremble with the weight of my pencil but they may cramp with the effort

— I haven't written recently

My supposed early onset arthritic fingers may need time to recuperate due to disuse —

And neither action is enough

I feel the need to bleed for this; for these things, alive without lung-filled breath and yet all-knowing in that calm they have

—

If I were to take a walk down the roads in summer, I would not be able to help myself from taking off my sneakers

The cramps in my belly, this feeling of my own infinitesimal existence that follows me around just as the fox may stalk the rabbit, would cease with the first indent my foot would make in the dirt

There are plenty of cliches I could use to make comparisons, but I respect the Earth far too much to offend her that way, with my layman's attempt at fond description

Red, going back to the blooms on the tree outside my window

But, like any other words that stick in one's throat with the knowledge of their insufficiency, I know using this one is no better than omitting its use altogether

Red.