The Place Where Colors Are Made

Someday I will see the place where the colors are made,
            The place of my joy.
There will be stairs leading up, wide marble stairs,
and there will be a room,
vast and vaulted and inspiring,
and there will be music, one hundred strings under the baton 
           of Carmen Dragon,
and there will be dancers, one hundred blondes 
            gowned by Jean Louis,
whooshing between the pillars in pastel chiffon.

The place is it: huge bubbling cauldrons of color
in which innocent cotton is transformed to gaudy hues,
to scarlet and fuchsia, to purple and gold,
to greens that bite your eyes and blues that lead you on until you think 
            the world will never end.

Oh, this is it, the place where all your dreams come true,
Where nothing is as it was and everything develops the potential
of what it can be.

Here is the stuff of change, the very stuff,
and you can take it home and hold it in your hands.
No paint will do, no paint will ever come close,
When you can stitch your lover a heart of ruby red, and say,
“This is the color – and the texture – of my love for you.”

Yes. This is the place where the colors are made.
This is the place of joy.