Blue (a poem draft)

It got colder on the first week of March, like the sun had

somehow retreated back into the darkness of space

and the Earth just suddenly shuddered at the ghosting.

Could it do that, though, the sun? Just walk off because this

blue planet isn’t so blue anymore? Who wrote the rules of gravity

anyway? And didn’t we defy it when we built airplanes, jealous of birds

and the way they just go to somewhere warmer when winter comes?

 

Is that what the race for the stars really is? A planned migration

for the coming days when the cold season bites through cotton or wool

and the warmer months blister and burn the skin? Did someone,

one day, look into a river and say, “The water is no longer blue. It is muddy

and filled with things not meant to be in water.” That someone

probably went home and opened his refrigerator and drank

water from a bottle and threw the empty vessel into the bin with all

the other things not meant to be in water.

 

I think of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and how rich the hues of its blues.

I never saw the actual painting but your can easily find one in a book.

Online, there are colors that are richer than that which I’ve seen

with my own naked eye. Men have improved on real life and brought

out the colors on their photos. The copy exceeds in luster and shine than

the actual thing. It has to. I was at a beach I used to go to in my youth

and the water isn’t as blue as it used to be. The sand is not as white nor as a fine.

 

But the sunset there can still

still my heart and no

photograph can match that

transcendental beauty when

the sun sinks into the

horizon line and takes

all the light and color with it.

What an entrance for the night!

All that beauty ripped

from the world to herald the evening

and its quiet.

 

It sends a shiver down my spine, a coldness

unlike that of any month of any year.

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