by Abigail Morse
I am a kaleidoscope.
I look at you and I see blue,
So I become blue too.
Your shade of green is different than mine,
But maybe I’ll learn to like it.
Like a chameleon who can’t decide
How best it hides from view,
I am changing.
I love home, but home is never in my grasp –
I taste the comfort of “place”:
A house with a fence,
Brilliant laughter –
And as I walk away
The sweetness leaves a bitter taste.
Like the changing colors in my view
I morph and roll, and someday, might emerge.
I am the thunder you expected but never heard.
Like the colors of a storm are soft and dark, so am I.
Like the white glare of a mirror in the sun,
I can shine.
But not myself.
I am a patterned work of glass
And beads and lenses.
Every goodbye forms new cracks among my colors –
Ones I never want to be there,
But as I look they become beautiful.
To some, I am useless. Confused. Incomplete.
Every fracture, every “one last hug,”
Every “see you later” knowing that “later” will never come
Comes close to shattering what’s left.
It comes close.
And then I see new colors.
When I look into the light
The brightest gleam becomes a conversation.
A joke. A laugh. A friend.
Our colors meet at the speed of light
And they fill the fractures in the glass
Which someone left behind.
We twist the rim of our jeweled spectacles
Until, face-to-face, we match.
Not everywhere – we are different, after all.
Oranges, and reds, and purples are placed
In ways that we don’t understand,
But we appreciate.
You’re not asking me to be the same
And I won’t ask you.
But as we look away,
I won’t forget my changing colors were because of you.