Explaining Color to a Blind Man

They say that you cannot explain
colors to a blind man, but I'd
like to prove you wrong.

Red happens when
your hand is on
the stovetop and
the heat laps at
your skin, leaving
you with a burn.

Orange is the fruit
whose bumpy rind
your sister peels;
she feeds you its
sweet, supple, and
juicy flesh.

Yellow is the
ray of sunshine
pushing down on
your back on a
summer morning,
making you sweat.

Green is the light
smell of the lawn
your neighbor mowed
an hour ago,
the grass poking
at your bare feet.

Blue is the sky
stretching above
you, the very air
that you breathe in,
peppered with a
few wispy clouds.

Purple, rare to
find in nature:
the smooth, fragrant
petals of the
flower you plucked
from mother's garden.

Pink are the lips
that quickly brush
your nose and leave
you wondering
for one second
what just happened.

Brown is bitter;
the piping hot
liquid that helps
to repel the throes
of exhaustion,
eyes forced open.

White is milky
cold, heavier
than it appears;
much like the wet
wispy clouds high
above your reach.

Black, the empty
feeling that you
get when you're
in a quiet
room and you're
not quite alone.

Black and white bleed
together to
create grey--the
floating smoke that
billows out of
small cigarettes.

And this is how I explain
colors to a blind man, unsure
if I proved you wrong.