Fuchsia

It's poetry day! We are so excited as we don our beards and round glasses. First, Frost, because it's almost time to give it up,
The way a crow/ shook down on me/ the dust of snow/ from a hemlock tree/ has given my heart/ a change of mood/ and saved some part/ of a day I had rued.
Isn't that lovely? Some people, you see, like getting snow dumped down their necks. Also, it means something about walking beneath hemlocks when the crow might drop something that isn't snow down upon you. Also, it's about a crow, and I'm all about crows. So, excellent poem. Anyone else? As a matter of fact I came up with something sublime earlier today. Let's see if I can recall it in its magnificence.
Ahem.
I wish to stretch to the color of fuchsia,
hot, blooming, and somewhere else.

It doesn't rhyme, I know, but that's the best I could do. I have this bit of fabric, silk I've been saving for a decade (all right, over a decade) and perhaps this is the year I will make something magnificent out of it. I can write my poem around the hem with a nice pen. Black against the fuchsia, or maybe pink which could signify something brilliant. Naturally, what else would it signify?