When I consider the colors I have written poems for,
I see a photo of a class of children in 1962.
You can tell the leaders—those who are big,
or well dressed, or not intimidated by the camera:
the girl with the ribbon in her long blonde hair,
the tall boy with the rakish smile,
the pretty twins.

If these children were the colors I have written poems for,
I would say I know them well;
I would say they do good work.
Yes, I would say, I regard them as my stars.

But I would also say I love the rest of the class,
those whose features and abilities are not developed yet,
the kids who tend to look like each other until you get to know them,
until you hold their hands and take them for a walk.

So if you should ask me, Which colors do you love?,
I would have to say, All.
I would have to say, Here are all my pals,
as I take from the drawers of Grandmother’s Italian chest
       the bags and boxes in which I keep my floss,
then overturn them on the rug where the colors jumble together in
        the sun, humming with contentment—
like jewels unearthed from Ali Baba’s cave,
like kids set free from school.