Carthusians scrape, bring forth their fruits, snap them from Creator's bed.
Brown, and brown, and brown again scowls at my toes,
looks away from watered colors dazzling on fine silk.
I am blues and wines...and purples. He is grass and earth,
cowslips and cowls.
Ah! monk, that our clothes were away, for then we are both
the high-born of God...
and our colors blend to kiss the night.
Tracy McCulloch, 1987
Ball State University, Muncie, Indiana
HOME || POETRY PAGE
© Copyright 1995-2007 OKAY Multimedia and the author