Each of His Cries Is a Different Color

His first cry came: a thin pale blue
as he flopped like a fish from sea to land,
then purple as he moored his breath
and fought his helpers’ tools and hands.
His sleepy cry is green as grass
nibbled by those elusive sheep.
Hunger, bright orange—a burning sun
needs constant fuel to stoke its flames
—but not as bright as pain, white-hot,
a blinding flash across his name.
His angry cry runs red as blood:
the voice of common humanity
protesting all that is not right
with tears enough to salt the sea.