When We Get to Paradise

Ask any well-read kindergartener
and they’ll rhapsodize on the blueness
of the sky. From the time you’re five
it’s the only thing that’s sure.

But in the life that’s ahead there’s room
for a whole color scale:

you’ll see how big it is in the red-river gash
that opens your knee when you topple
from your bike after passing the science quiz.

There’s cool greens and blues that reflect
in the ocean, which you won’t taste til college
and discover salt belongs in the water.

God’s got a bright orange eye; the same
round and heavy kind you grew in a garden in the South
when you got old enough to start heading down
there. They’ll both peel themselves upon your hand,
and you’ll remember the rainbow you followed from
then to the end.

When we get to paradise
I hope we’ll have sung all our scales, and I promise
the last thing you’ll see
is plain blue.