The night after the morning of the day before closes
in blue wisps that can only be grasped in moonshine,
ghosts trail pinkies across a dim sky that dimly refines
night following day. A smoke ring drifts past red roses
and bounces across her chest. Is it only a blue dream?
In summer there is white longing to visit peaks remote,
to pause before the vastness of valleys that, open, seem
to invite a gasp. In the kitchen, pears brown in compote
are at an ecstatic bubble. Vanilla ice cream on the marble
counter softens. A chickadee begins that familiar warble,
almost blue. Almost doing the things we used to do.