The Blue
What are those filaments gliding in the wind?
For a moment flashing a rainbow, flying up higher
and higher until the sun’s angle changes and it becomes one with the blue.
I say, the faded yellow paint never looked clearer against
it.
There is a reflection of it in the blackness of your eyes.
I am tired, and tearful with joy
at the wide, open sky and the hand in my hand.
