Being red is the color of a white sun where it lingers on an arm. Color of time lost in sparks, of space lost inside dance. Red of walks by the railroad in the flush of youth, while our steps released the squeaks of shoots reaching for the light. Scarlet of sin, crimson of fresh blood, ruby and garnet of the jewel bed, early sunshine, vestiges of the late sun as it turns green and disappears. Be calm. Do not give in to the rabid red throat of age. In a red world, imprint the valentine and blush of romance for the dark. It has come. You will not be this quick-to-redden forever. You will be green again, again and again.
Marvin Bell - 1937-2020
Once when the moon was out about three-quarters and the fireflies who are the stars of backyards were out about three-quarters and about three-fourths of all the lights in the neighborhood were on because people can be at home, I took a not so innocent walk out amongst the lawns, navigating by the light of lights, and there there were many hundreds of moons on the lawns where before there was only polite grass. These were moons on long stems, their long stems giving their greenness to the center of each flower and the light giving its whiteness to the tops of the petals. I could say it was light from stars touched the tops of flowers and no doubt something heavenly reaches what grows outdoors and the heads of men who go hatless, but I like to think we have a world right here, and a life that isn't death. So I don't say it's better to be right here. I say this is where many hundreds of core-green moons gigantic to my eye rose because men and women had sown green grass, and flowered to my eye in man-made light, and to some would be as fire in the body and to others a light in the mind over all their property.