Oh that feeling; fidelity in color...
Red ribbons and hair, gold meadows and sun, black streamers behind us.
Stillness in the mind of wind. So many coats cannot hide you;
I can see the breeze in your smile, whatever blue the note may seem.
The peaks and troughs of waves breathe color and form
Through endless lines, the breathless mime: Death!
Herself, the Harbinger of things we have seen
Fulfilled and yet desired, holds us even as we falter,
While we stand devastated, transformed and transfixed.
How can we stray?
The end is as beginning: contractions, open and closing.
Sweet smokescreens never shrouded the bather,
No matter the scent or color the matter,
The kiss of winter has never moved the sun.