Writer’s Son

In the Era of Rainbows
the four-year-olds leaned over their papers
and colored in the all-too-familiar lapidary arch
of blue, violet, yellow, brick red, and orange
from green earth up to the sky-blue heavens
and back down again, while at the end of the table
the writer’s son inscribed an arch of darkness, devoid of color,
no friendly strip of earth’s greenery carpeting
the bottom of the page. So why, I asked,
is your rainbow black, Matthew? Because,
he said, looking me in the eye,
it is night.