Caucasian? White? To Blame?

If you are Caucasian, they
don’t give you the right to color.
You are branded by incandescent
Light bulbs which bleach and leach the
Color out of your existence.
“Be remorseful, for this is your done deed.”
But I’m not remorseful, no, not me.
I’m not a defiler, derider, denier.
I am the daughter of the 60s, born in the 50s,
Sent into the future, now past, to be.
Yes, to be liberal, caring, sharing.
Don’t blame my color for the criminal’s
Crime. I fought for us, the social bottom.
Where my eyes have always been open,
My family fought to insure their message would survive.
I’m not to blame for other handheld knives
In throats blameless and innocent.
There is a knife in my throat, exposing me
As red blooded human in the act of surviving.

The Empty Garden

Brown and barren, the leaves fell
The plane trees lacking color
Unredeemable, except for the seed pods
Which still hang like Christmas tree
Ornaments. Maple leaves red, yellow,
Brown, always the brown asserts
Itself into the color, hinting,
Threatening that the end comes.
Sunsets red, orange, the moon
Rises, Yellow, hazy, plump,
Food for the hunter, gatherer,
Soon virgin white will cover
The stains of life, healing, planting
Seeds of tomorrow’s world.
Teaching with iciness the survival
Of the young, the aged, the storekeeper
In all of the seasons to come.