by Janet Paszkowski

On my fortieth birthday,
I treated myself to a make-over
A woman half my age said
I was the color of fall
Rich with undertones of amber and gold

That's odd, I thought.

My first husband, a pilot, said
I was the color of winter.
Well, not really.
He actually said I was frigid.
Then he flew south
With a woman who had a warmer complexion.

My second husband, a gardener said
I was the color of spring.
Well, not really.
He actually said I was all wet.
Then he left to hose
someone else's garden

My third husband, a meteorologist, said
I was the color of summer.
Well, not really.
He actually said I was the sunshine of his life.
Then he spawned a series of stormy affairs.

My fourth husband, a loser, simply said
"Color me gone."

I view myself as a woman for all seasons.
I say, "Color me not!"

About the Author:
Janet Paszkowski is a fiction writer, poet and visual artist.   Her works of fiction and poetry have received numerous regional and national awards, and she has been published in several literary journals, internet and mainstream venues.  She refers to her piece, Color Me, as a slice-of-life poem.