Heliotrope was in a sour mope.
She was the last crayon picked.
She felt as if she’d been kicked.

Blue had been used to a nub and
Red to a stub. White was blotchy
from covering up every flub.

“I want to play!” Heliotrope sniffed.
“I need to get out of this cage.
Just one moment in center stage.”

Chartreuse was miffed and said,
“You aren’t the only one neglected
and I’m not dejected, Drama Queen!”

“Why is it so awful to want to be seen?”
Heliotrope asked. Blue snapped: “Pipe down!
I’m rubbed raw and headed for a breakdown!”

Poor Heliotrope couldn’t turn red with rage
or green with envy. Her color was fixed,
so emotion turned into locomotion.

She snaffled. She snuffled. She pushed
the others, swelling and spilling sobs, then–
POP! She burst in gooey, ghastly gobs.

Her color exploded onto loamy soil,
combining with seeds, lichen and moss.
“No great loss,” Chartreuse muttered.

On that spot, something new was born.
A flower unfurled. Tiny petals uncurled.
Heliotrope was reborn, the color of hope.

Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham

Notes: I’ve been reading Greek myths on Aquileana’s site, and I was inspired by the idea of something beautiful coming from tragedy. I also read The Day the Crayons Quit by Drew Daywalt this summer. The flower in the picture is not Heliotrope (in the Borage family), but the color is the one I remember from my crayon box.