A Walk In Buffalo Grass

I will refrain from writing a poem

Because poetry is not in my blood -

I will write in scattered lines

Which will be scewed as verse.

Poetry is not in my blood

As the color red.

Prose is in my blood

As the color yellow.

Amarillo is an identity,

A grounded state-of-being,

A walk through buffalo grass

Thriving under the sun.

Of course littered about lies garbage,

Tainting the golden crust,

The identity, and the sun -

However, that, too, is part

Of the whole of the identity.

Yellow is not just a color

That brings vibrancy to paintings,

Represents anxiety,

Or highlights the words of those

Whose genuis

We should hold most dear -

But the place that I was born.

Born, raised, and shaped

Under the brazing sun,

The 80 degree weather,

And the crunch of dry, yellow grass.

Amarillo and yellow:

The words are one in the same.

They are colors, anxieties, identities -

I am they and they are me