The sun rose in red in my dawning sky.
A bleeding heart broken without reasons why.

Red as a poppy in a field of green
or the cardinal, mid-winter, aloft in a Hawthorn,
beginning to preen.

This redness, a contrast to the blues
sung in depth – with tears and vibrations,
of sorrow that’s kept.

A redemption that claims some gardenias in red,
or dahlias unspoken for what could be said.

I’ve read it’s a badge, for courage, no less –
or lettering scarlet and prone to excess.
Ms. O’Neill said “a shout”, while Hughes “warmed the dead.”
there could be some reclamation of dread.

What L-cones see and betalains stain
and what lycopene offers as a conjugate twain
is beyond simple poetry, -mostly in fact –
A blether or prattle that might well distract
from the science of souls.
And what could it be but a crimson parole.

The penance that’s offered and homage well-crowed
colors the evening beside a dirt road.
A path that goes westerly and as the crow flies,
deep woods on my right, and this song satifies.