The sky streams by overhead, a blue tapestry
dappled with puffs of white, each cloud haloed
by the sun’s mild gold. The day is at its half-
way point. Soon, the sky will lose its hold on gold,
the blue spruce will sigh, the verdure of their green
growing imperceptible as night unveils its black cloak
But, for the moment, the sun’s orange rays still shower down;
the moon’s silver sliver is an afterthought for the firmament.
I sit in front of my computer to write, the white screen
staring back at me. This is nothing new: my chairs tawny
faux leather faded to a bland beige from years of constant use.
Sometimes, I trace the silver rings of my keyboard,
watching as black letters string together to form words.
Time streams by as mauve overtakes
the sky’s former cobalt: the day is growing red.
I must remember how I spent this light, these amber rays
that fade into the ochre of dusk. The days prismatic finale—
sepia, pink, and violet—-colors the sky as if it were a canvas.
Night has come, its black liquor spilling through my window.
My window glows with a soft white before fading into night.
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