I believed you once; your ability
to chase away shadows clouding
my better judgment.
You were but a woman with yarn
and I thought you rope.
You would nod along as if my colors
made sense to you, but you were
green and brown and red
and could not possibly have
understood.
You were glass to my wood,
contaminated sunshine in a storm,
precisely what I hate about yellow;
you were, at best,
lukewarm.

Christine Austin Cole

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/icterus/