Oh why are there colors and not just flat gray,

The sheening green gleam of the meadow in May,

The yellowest lemon aloft on the limb,

Bowed branches of blueberries bent to the brim?


And why summer sunsets of orange all aflame,

Or red ruby radishes rinsed by the rain,

And golden-white tassels crowning corn’s ear,

Or the cashmere bronze blanket adorning the deer?


And what of the brilliant blue sky and the sea,

Or petals of pink on the puffed peony,

Or rainbows’ resplendent full palleted pose,

Of pastelled blue, green yellow and rose?


And whence came the peacock with paraded plume,

Or white waves of daisies dressed in full bloom,

And wet pearls of silvery dew at the dawn,

Or freckled white splotches of fur on the fawn?


So why are there colors and not just flat gray?

‘Cause the Maker who makes things, makes things that way.