A gesture for color
Standing here on the sidewalk, she sees
the horizon as a series of dull gray
scraping the almost-raining sky.
There is where the steady pattern of windows
are clear yet worn from not being used,
from not being looked-out of.
When everything is blank—a clean slate—is
how it all begins. Then a trace, an outline, that stays.
What the root begins, the fruit ends. A violet
that is not quite violet yet
supple in the light which is created.
Its sheen—proof of the fruit's juice
where the light is seen but left out.
She enters what she creates. Here,
staring at the fruit she colors a not-so-violet,
staring at the root that catches.
She picks the fruit and takes it in. She cannot be
without taking it in. And just as she closes her eyes
she opens them to the horizon—
to the landscape without fruit—and is
full. Here, she spits out the seeds
to plant them in the concrete
where roses, once believed, could grow.
For the mind sees the horizon before the first step
and here is everywhere she can change.
by Kokoy Guevarra
a new ID. a new image. a new phase in my life.
i was lucky to have my good friend Kokoy make a poem about this picture.
Kokoy's one of the most brilliant Literature students in Ateneo. got invited to be a professor as soon as he graduated.