Green is the colour of my true love’s hair. Misquote. Nonsense. Like daffodils in March.
There it is again, green like spring. Yet spring is brown, mud, dirty ice piling on banks.
Messy, farthest from fresh, another unearned description of green. Green like pea-soup, swirled and confused.
At least it is cheerful, you say. Green? Green at the gills, green with envy. The colour of discontent.
And lest you speak of the hillside and piney needles, remember that greener is the grass on the other side.
Tend your own. With any luck it will have turned brilliant yellow.
The moon is made of it they claim, but I’m glad it’s not. Drippy, stinky green cheese calling through the celestial places to earth.
Onto the jolly green giant, dancing somewhere on a green bean can label.
Truly? Green means new and unpracticed, nearly incompetent. Green means sorting your trash. Green means cash in a vintage gangster sense, and as the words pile up, I tend to think that we would be better off with magenta pastures and purple thumbs.
Unless a tree by another colour wouldn’t look as strong. Or blades of timothy, bending over in the wind, would no longer be home. The grasshopper as it clings with spindly legs, appearing too serious if it was any other colour.
And besides, if there was no green, how would we recognize the monsters when we saw them?