They are a Colorist

Swiftly and before you could know it
orange hues, creeping a real live look
while somewhere between sheep
and bleeting sheep, they’ve found you
thinking all wilds of things when
thoughts runnel off parlored.
There is a skill to this lifting,
others always pausing, clocked
to the newest phrasal tinge.
Even in the grotesqueries, you
are thought on, each and every
system incorporating you evenly,
and it is not a necessary grace.
The moon, abandonment,
and other off-limit tropes appearing
as laps to you and an ear to tuck behind,
the world promising you toasts
and stipends and your children,
plentiful, their intelligences to the floor
and scaring the pets away. There
you are to scoop them up, your ensemble
in flame-tones. Not orange. Tangerine.
Found greedily in most intermezzos,
we are allowed to tire of you. We tire of you
because we are allowed. Rest, knowing
you are known. Rest because rest
tends toward powdered values. Silver the dish
where you’re paid, plaid the bag
you fold you wares. Some are stayed just
by the fullness of the apothecary they supply
in native plants: dusty purple, creamy yellow,
the perfect shade of pink to read by.