Color Critic Poem by suxanne popp

Why does it bother me
That the juice of the plum
At the heart of the poem
Should not be maroon?

Did I not feel the heartbeat
Of a mother birthng her loss?
As the fledging left her hand
Jar shattering, ripe womanhood
Spilled?
What was that color then?
We all know it. Saffron? No.
Fuchsia? Close. Not pink, nor purple,
And, definitely, not maroon.
By concentrating on the hue
I escape the pain
Of my vermillion loss.