The color green, saturated, is wealthy. Muted, it’s fragile, thin, one drop away from a fracture. When transparent, it’s charming, inducing. Of what? That depends on the lighting. Add blue, make laughter. Add yellow, knobby knees on sour grass. Add white, taste the taffy! Green. Think of a misted forest floor coated in a rich, mossy understory. Picture hands on leaves, velveteen like the fluff of a pup or slick like the underside of a worn shoe. They prick your skin and move to kiss your wounds.
The number seven, 7, is a balanced thing. It leans forward only to hold itself in place. It knows restraint. It is an upward crest of an advancing tide, and it’s the hanging cliff on the oceanside. It’s odd, not an outcast. It’s a preliminary stepping stone toward larger vistas. Seven is odd, but it contains “even”. It marks the day of contentment, the moment of relief after much painstaking effort. Seven is the age of liberation and bleeding knees and complex sentences and back talk and crushing heartbreak, that is, feeling an innocent crush unrequited.
Seven meets green and introduces itself, sweetly. Green accepts, silently.