"What color is the sky?"

You ask me,

Expecting the appropriate answer of "blue."

"What color is the sky?"

You repeat-

Did you think I had not heard?

"But, which sky?"

I respond,

Tilting my head thoughtfully to the side.

"Which sky?"

You repeat my own question.

"The sky is never just a plain crayon blue,"

My mind swirls with memories.

...Of red and orange


Of navy fading to pink

In sunrise,

Of starless black,

And pure white swirls,

And slate grays

Before the storm.

Of marbled skies, like paper,

Which I had watched

From hidden in the grass,

Of the candy-heart skies

In my dreams.

"Quit mouthing off,"

You respond,

And turn away on your heel-

But you know I am right.

Why do we grow up

Learning only of the self-imposed stereotypes

Which the human race

Has already placed upon itself?

Why insist upon the grass being green

When we can all look at it,

And see that it just isn't so?

Ask a child,

"What color is a rose?"

And they will simply say, "red;"

"What color are clouds?"


Can't we all look around us

And see that nothing

Can be outlined so simply?

Just as no human's skin

Is merely black

Or white?


Of course we can.

Of course we do.

...But why does it not soak far enough in

To reach our minds?