Part of Blue is Red

If a modicum of blue is red,
and so are all the colors in between,
then how did we reach this meeting of roads?
How did the sky's hues shift into obscurity,

like children swirling watercolors
in a glass too small to hold them all?
When did green bear the burden of a new form,
shedding its skin of patronage?

The leaves left paper cuts on my fingers
from the oak tree's shake,
its rocking like a sailboat amidst
a rainstorm's orgasmic thrusts.

The pellets' savagery flushed the soil,
unearthing moles and ridding them
of their handicap in due time.
The red of their eyes is now blue,

but it will evolve into something like
the chastity that only the sun's heat can provide.
Its charity will bubble up in the brook
where the roads intersect at dawn's approach,

signifying their inevitable consummation.
They will reproduce and create fireworks
of colors that only we could create,
colors blessed by the sky's absence of vanity.