Yellow

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.