Hope is always yellow, the crispness
of daffodils blooming first,
sometimes when snow still lingers
in crevices of the ground.
Wordsworth's host dancing
and the sophomore English class
where my reluctant mind was made
to memorize his lines.
Yellow clings to the fresh straw
we placed in the boxes for chickens
to award us with the yolks beaming
from our frying pan, darkening
to the sizzle of bacon with its sturdy
brown, grease darkening in the pan.
Yellow makes my mind tingle, but
it's brown I trust, the reality that
gives hope its startling contrast.