Herman Hesse

Outside my window, the sun casts
a thousand shades of green upon the retina.
Beyond them—stones, hills.
Rooftops sing out burnt sienna,
orange, against a cool wash of blue.
From metal tubes I squeeze viridian,
terre verte, chromium oxide, emerald
green onto the palette. I dip the brush
in water, tease a tributary between
gleaming heaps of paint, mix in yellows, blues—
a few dozen shades suggest an infinite range.
War has stolen the language, my words
the shards of shattered bridges left behind.
For now, I will let color play.

Ann Hostetler