sketches in marigold

i think marigold is the color of

childhood, or at least the color of mine. memories

dipped in deep mustard, touched

gentle amber with the passages of time.

i think marigold is the color of

innocence, or at least the charade of it. rubbing

playing cards tinted ochre under my calloused

thumbs, sticking fingers in lunchtable holes.

i think marigold is the color of

childish love, or at least the high of it. mashing

buttons on the family wii, pinky promises

sworn under glow-in-the-dark stars.

and i think marigold is the color of

a time now lost, and the aftermath of wistfulness

paints the sketches in.