When I see the shy pink blossom of a tree,
I scoff at black-and-white photography.
We see the blush
The colors we forgot we grew into.
We meant to
Shake the dried petals
Away from the binding,
But the blinding, aging sun-flash
Won’t stop reminding
Us of the shadows on the dial
We fade as we capture
We develop into masters
Our slaves’ blood the gray ink
Glossed in our history book portrait.