“Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color.” -Maggie Nelson, Bluets, page 1

                On a walk tonight, and we had to stop to watch a tree’s lacy leaves breathing in the light of a street lamp. Seen from where we were, the leaves looked almost white. Or snowy. Or moonlit reflection on water. Just as permeable, drinking in the world. 
                Maybe it was the street lamp and the angle we were looking from, and who knows, maybe my tired eyes. I’ve walked that street a lot lately, and I don’t remember any tree with leaves the color we saw tonight. But then again, how often do I take the time to fall in love with a color? Too rarely, I think. Maybe that’s the point of asking. But since seeing the tree I keep falling in love with colors: the blue-black-dim of the shadows behind the white leaves, the blue of Nelson’s Bluets, waiting for me back on the desk, and the paler teacup blue of a note from a friend that peaks out from beneath a stack of work papers on my desk to say “Hi, Azlan!” in my friend’s dark blue pen. The red of a pencil at my elbow. The pink of my partner’s water bottle. Maybe Nelson’s right. When seeing becomes permeable, becomes drinking in the world, it’s a kind of falling in love.