I am Yellow

Ochre, not the white-blind, shining sun, 

not the smiling-faced flower.

I am yellow ochre pouring in

honey-soft and slow, 

through my living room curtains

at sunset.

In summer, yes

but I am not the bright lights of summer. 

Not the never ending days.

I am the edges of the forest trees in morning

draped in mist and fog.

I am the burnt-orange,

crisped-browns,

the amber-reds of autumn. 

I am the earth, underfoot.