I had a dream last night that my feet suddenly blossomed with color. Streaks of paint running along the bones, under my flat arches, ribboning up my ankles. That is what words do. They pull color to the surface. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that color exists at all. I’ve woken up to too many windy gray mornings and fallen asleep in too many pure black nights. Color doesn’t always stay, but when it appears I dig my toes in and hold on good. If you look close enough at the sand, mica glints back at you. If you look close enough at paper, words always appear. Today, my shoes are filled with light.