I thought I knew all about the color chart,
having carefully studied the rainbows.
My Crayola box, taken apart,
had revealed all hues of greens and yellows.
But I never knew Green before Ireland.
Through deepest mist, green gleams and glimmers.
When there is sunshine, it leaps out. The land
is filled with coppery sheens and shimmers,
sparkling ribbons and ridges. We forego
any recall of faded shades we once knew.
Each passing square of fertile farmland shows
off the most surprising tints and hues,
each greener than the one before. Aglow.
Here, absinthe edged with purple heather. There,
Chartreuse, yellow iris, hints of azure.
Ahead, bright lime on limestone.
Up high where sheep pose casually
on jagged rocks, it preens
to Shamrock bright, then dims down, pale again,
shedding color as if washed through streams.
A dark moss forest sizzles against stone,
newgreen shoots nuzzle up to fleeting sunbeams.
Bright ferns circle solemn dolmens, alone
in mythical reverie, new wheat a soft neighbor,
moves to orchestral breezes, unsown.
The royal hues of this bejeweled tableau
glisten like new buds at every turn. We savor
the flavor of every green fruit we have known.
There are no limits here it seems
to the magic of Chlorophyll.
If I picked the grass, I could watch it grow
back again in seconds, restored and shining still.
If I ran into the rain soaked meadow,
as I rolled over and over, teal carpets
would likely cushion me softly as I go.
Verdant colors live large here, quite unknown
to the pallets of Monet and Van Gogh.
Recalling them now is an act of will.
No camera lens can fully impart
such iridescent, phosphorescent thrill.
We see the vast promises of the heart
in this lush and lavish space, know the mirth
in an optimist’s smile, relax in the earth’s
ripeness. So many places here to start
channeling youth, abundance, re-birth.