Golden Pink,
Yes,
That’s the color,
Of hope, of the first rays of the sun,
Of the first blossom of the spring,
Of the tiny infant fingers on newborn hands,
Clutching air, seeking that giver of life.
The color which speaks,
In infinite variables,
Like a crackling fire on a winter night,
Like a faint murmur,
Of a summer brook.
The color, a brush of blush,
On the shining sun,
Like the tips of a little girls braids,
Like an essence of a rosebud,
Like lips of an eager lover,
Like a brush,
Ready with dripping paint,
For a wash,
On a ruined painting,
A new beginning.
