What could depend on a
red wheelbarrow?

A mountain of compost; a
half-bale of hay;

two joy-riding children; a
grub-hunting sparrow;

a leghorn in search of a
dry place to lay.

A wheelbarrow maybe. But
why not a green one?

Children and chickens and
sparrows don't care.

Then a painter with tubes of
alizarin crimson

and no inspiration, his
garden pecked bare;

or a box of impatiens in
need of a planter;

or a pair of photographers
on holiday.

On an overcast morning the
color might matter

to a writer's-blocked poet
or an MFA.