Today, my color is blue like the part of the flame that knows how to stay, like the mirror glint shaken off the magpie’s shoulders to refill to the sun. Bursted plum-blue like the rough-kissed feet of a ballerina as she glides and bends in a smock of white feather and perfect stretch.
You could miss it if you weren’t looking, just like a miracle, just like the comedy growing deep and fungal in the forest of a tragedy.
Today, my color is blue. Electric nightsky blue like the atmosphere of the new planets we imagine when our gravity pulls too hard. When we are more flicker than stay, more rise than repeat, more wing-it than nest. Yes, lapis-shocked sapphire-blue like the skies of new world, where we lay ourselves down between the trees, in a bed of other funguses. Eyes trying to see the galaxy through the leaves. Overhead, a new sky, a blue sky so blue, while underneath; a wasteland that is at least not our fault, yet.
Blue like the sweet jagged bark of home, and how it calls us to shape it into something better than new air. Blue like the warm sap of hope that leaks between those calls. How it drips over everything. Fills in the blanks. Holds us in stillness like the bruised center of the sun, centers us in the gravity of tomorrow, like the grip that holds the fire to itself.
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