There it is again; this time
it’s in the morning sky
over Three Sisters and it’s layered
with various shades of blue
and somber dawn.
The gray frost on the grass
is a metaphor, but I don’t get metaphors.
So, I stare at swirls in the sky
until I see smoke from a chimney
and colors begin to fade.
It’s gone now and I wonder
if it was ever there at all.
Maybe it was really
a more sophisticated hue of itself,
a near-relative with money
and a hundred-dollar name.
No, I decide it was just pink
as I stumble into the bedroom,
kiss her barely wetter than a peck,
whisper I’m sorry for last night
and head to the barber for a trim.
The Toucan Magazine - December 2012