The Colour Green

Lying in the shadows of
the old banyan tree,
 sometimes
watching
little green caterpillars walking,
undulating
as the sinuous ripples
of My love as
she dances
over Me.

What can it mean,
that the pitter-patter
of rain
falling
through verdant green
boughs,
bent
to the will of One
who would take

Is this the way My life is,
bereft
of all colour
except green?
Nay, for after the first
flush of spring,
blooms come alive
in an explosion
of a riot of colours.

She never stopped her movements,
her dance,
                never ending,
                                      taking what I gave,
keeping it ensconced in her arms,
fretting My brow
as I dreamt.