cool needles

To Mark Rothko of Untitled (Blue, Green), 1969
Anne Cherner Whitehouse

Never this scratched world, its human
brows like dry point, your harmonies
are liquid glycerin, soothing,
the lingering bath. Who knew
better than you, Mark Rothko:
color has not root nor core.
Into each other at the first
kiss fusing, a metamorphosis!
Blue paint laps about our toes,
our skin is going deep deep green -
the wild smell, the spruce,
the evergreen pricking its cool needles.