the day was lilac.
there were goldenrod auras around the trees.
the ocean was a thousand shades of jade and feldgrau and sapphire
with sparkling diamonds on the peak of every wave.
we walked along the shore and
she told me burgundy and firebrick-tinted stories
from times when there was only sepia
and neither Davy nor Payne had yet claimed their own grays.
her eyes were magenta with specks of bright coral
and dark cerulean shadows that glittered
with cornflower secrets from a saffron-hued life.
she made everything feel like lemon chiffon,
even the most razzmatazz moments when
it seemed like things would never stop being fuchsia.
the sky was fading into prussian and indigo twilight
and she shone, glorious in all her blaze of alizarin perfection,
surrounded by a halo of amber youth and viridian wisdom.
then the tales took a psychedelic edge
shimmering with fluorescent harlequin and vermilion
but always in her lilting wisteria voice
whispering of seashells and old lace.
at the end of the beach there was lavender silence
(because it was a lilac day after all).
as I turned to behold her the dying stars glowed tangerine
and I saw that there was an ivory flower in her carnation hair.