Green is the colour of making. It is. It just is. A metaphor of growth is completely the right metaphor for making. Germinating, budding, flowering … those are the parts of making every bit as much as they are the parts of plant growth.
Green is a colour of unbelievable power for me. Maybe partly because of what it promises, maybe partly because of what it describes.
The shortest poem I’ve ever written is made up of my three favourite words:
That green embrace is not just the embrace of the boreal forest, altho’ god knows that is an embrace that I crave and court, always. That green embrace is not just that thing, no. It is also that moment of whoosh when the words run down your fingers, riverine, and onto the page and you just can’t stop them from pouring out and down and onto and over everything. It’s the effortless moment of epiphany when the making just happens and you don’t have to cajole or seek any more than the forest floor has to take the incipient fern out for dinner and a movie to charm the fern into unfurling. The fiddleheaded fern unfurls because it must.