Color is the language of the poets. It is astonishingly lovely. To speak it is a privilege.

Color is the language of the poets. It is astonishingly lovely. To speak it is a privilege.

Seeing is such a privilege. Who notices the way the screech of a gull looks, the look of a gale, the sight of some fragrance?

A red apple isn't red, nor the lemon yellow. The sky is seldom blue, only when it isn't.