She wishes to be in pink and sky. Remembering when the jewelry party lady placed gaudy gold coins on her ears. As a sister’s friend was adorned in lilac crystal drips. It sticks years later. Fated with that fair and freckled hair color number cut from burger chain braids. Made out of the rustic fabric her mom picked and stitched. It matched. Hatched as that orange tyrannosaurs sans sibling wings.
Trying to be spring in fall. All made pastel like a baby doll playing in the dirt. Colored khaki, mucky, mustard on her chin. Grinning at bark, and the shades of squirrels. Girls, she’s got the curls, but bows get in the way. Granite and slate. Charcoal stains left like lead astray. Ashes from a flick of brick. She can red. Up like the French do. Hued in that sienna filter. Lifting a finger for another napkin to scratch on.
Beyond pine, drab, olive branched into. Reached through cerulean, sapphire nights. Right as azure turns to soft fushia blushes. Clutched like sixty four melted shades. Made by daydreams. She’s seen in bland yoga clothes from the continental divide. Offwhite, peagreen, mud. Stuck out against her powdered skies. Alive and laced beneath the tan.
The wind knows who I am.