The yellow of my jacket in the woods– the one too impractical for cold weather that, today, could go anywhere. The yellow of the sun through the trees (with poetic liberties taken).
A basket of bright bananas, not the kind we usually get up here in the North: greenish and wishful and barely able to recall the warmth in which they grew– but creamy, buttery, almost the color of saffron or frothed egg yolk. And meyer lemons, as yeilding to the touch as anyone in love could hope to be.
And mangoes! The slice of the knife cutting yellow open to reveal yet more. The ooze of it over fingers (turned the same color from chopping tumeric). The yellowness, even, of the taste– so satiny and luscious, as if custard could grow on trees.
And in contrast and balance, the full blue of the lake, a whole winter’s worth of it, just about ready (in a day or a month or two) to rise back into the sky and bring us all to life again.