30/20: Chameleon

She is equal parts golden  brown
lion and white bull,  herein lies
her magic spell. The question is
what parts and colors do
you see when look at her?
And what does this say
about you?

On a Monday in the lion city,
upon returning just right
from a lovefest with the sun
someone wanting to see whiter
saw her color ugly, beseeched the
undercooked whiteness back from
beneath the well-done glow.

On a Tuesday in the sleepless city,
someone saw only golden brown.
Saw goddess. Saw beautiful.
Saw home. Saw sister. Saw peace.
Was it the warmth of brown eyes
or the sway of golden hip or the
exotic roll of tongue? What was it
that eclipsed the whiteness that
sat in there with the golden brown?

On a Wednesday in the city of
spring rolls, a man at the wheel
saw a familiar fusion, 
wanted to claim her
for his  prodigal kin.
Saw traitor. Saw deflector.
Saw Westernized.
Saw comrade.
Saw genocide. Blinded
by his history, he could
not see her true.

On a Thursday in an Eastern
city of Angels, after a weary
week of work, a Frenchman
set her mane free, released
her curl by curl. Saw the
strength of spring. Saw the
sparkle of brown.
Saw evolution. Saw neighbor.
In a world of rigid black
silk straightness, he saw fluid.
Saw liberté.

On a Friday in the former
British territory, the Americanized
Scotsman celebrated her bull.
Saw her fight and liked it.
Saw the fire and the warmth
that stoked it.  Saw reliable
and surprising. Saw exciting.

It is only at the weekend that
all of her shines in plain sight,
only at her Saturday laze
and Sunday brunch.
It is only at the weekend
that her notes weave melody
and harmony. When the church
bells  toll and robed folk
sing their praise.
This is when she lets you see.
This is when she lets you see.