Evening Colors

Let me show you how pretty the world is,
she said, their hands entwined.
They walked along the fringe of the day
and tread softly on passing time.
The minutes poked through their toes
like the windswept grass, or the
swaying grain fields they waded through.
Soon an orange frosted twilight leaned
its golden tinged fingers down towards
their eager, upturned heads.
His fingers emptied as she ran out under
the glow, soaking in evening rays,
twirling into a lonely waltz, smiling as birds
danced a jig mid-air. The wind sang a grateful
hallelujah in four part harmony as the colors
blended from gold to royal purple, finally settling
on the darkness that some say is not a color.
Tonight, for two, it is every color except one,
the color of the blinking stars poking
their curious eyes out of the blankets of day.
The world is beautiful, he sighed, as they
slowly walked toward dawn.

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One thought on “Evening Colors

  1. This world is, indeed, beautiful, through the eyes of the poet. You’ve made the scene so vivid, so saturated with color and music, I can almost see and hear it—but not quite. You really do have to be there, don’t you.

    Touching hands. Hmmmm . . . :o)

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