What Color is Time
What color is time, I wonder aloud—
Is it green with envy,
creeping vines that climb the hours,
or blue with hope,
a wide horizon stretching forward?
Perhaps it’s pink with love,
soft as the blush of a tender dawn,
or brown and gray,
a weathered cloak draped heavy
on the shoulders of days.
Some say beige—
a quiet neutral, neither here nor there,
a whisper in the corners of memory.
Does time seep in,
soaking the soul like dye in cloth,
or does it glance away,
a reflection caught,
no harm, no trace,
only passing?
