It always seemed incongruous
to me that a flame could be blue,
blue as a cold, hard sapphire is.
Fire should be red or yellow
or orange—warm colors,
and blue reserved for the sea
and the firmament.
But yet, even the sky
at times turns to fire colors,
purloining from the sun,
and the ocean in certain light
seems green as pine needles.
Is nothing then dependable?
Prisms and spectrums and light
are magicians who trick us,
and sometimes surprise us.
Who do they think they are?
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Comments about this poem (Blue Flame by Sonny Rainshine )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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