The people they like to look at me for hours

Decode me, rate me, put me on posters, postcards, paraphernalia

Critique me, I am like a contestant in a pageant,

The critics come and go, like dead leaves on a tree falling down

They see a bowl of fruit, a field, a portrait of a fancy lady,

They say I am abstract, they name artists, Picasso, DaVinci, Cassat, Rubens,

I am none of those things, I am color, I am everything that is warm, cold, dark light,

One day a child understands my plea for understanding,

They call out to their mother,

"Look mother, it's color!