Erica Minton

WAVELENGTH

She did one thing very well:
she could describe color.
She even had a signature blue,
somewhere between a Tiffany box
and a clutch of hydrangea—
well I can’t do it, not like her.
What I envied most were her yellows:
mustards that would prick
at your tongue, smooth lemons,
drippy honey, and shades of sunlight
that exactly matched times of day,
parts of the country, cloud
conditions. I was a poor mimic—
I couldn’t smell the greens or taste
indigo, and I’m convinced she was working
with her own private palette anyway.
She’s gone, and she took with her a gold
so brassy you could hear it—
but her spirit thrives in white,
where it all comes together.