I plunge my script pen into green ink.
Chlorophyll flows through my veins
and tints each sentence. In sunlight
I photosynthesize. Fertility. Freshness.
Vincent van Gogh brushed “Roses” in hues
Of moss, lime, and olive greens. I recall
an olive grove two millennia ago.
I build Oz’s Emerald City facet by facet.
Why do I see you through green eyes?
