One day, I am thinking
of a color. It is June.  

The summer strawberries
run violet on the vine,  
damselflies lose appetite
for insects, craving lily
pad waxen blooms instead.  

Hummingbirds hover
expectantly over wild
onion and bees seek
nectar from rainbows  

after thunderstorms
leave splash-puddles
on concrete sidewalks  

between cracks
green moss grows
sprouting orange
flowers only because  

I wanted to use orange
in a poem, too, Frank.