Wednesday, January 20, 2010


Blue is a heron, a sapphire ring,
you can smell blue in many a thing:
Gentian and Larkspur, forget-me-nots, too.
And if you listen you can hear blue
in wind over water and wherever flax blooms
and when evening steps into lonely rooms.
Cold is blue; flame shot from a welding torch Is, too
hot, wild, screaming, blistering blue
and on winter mornings the dawns are blue...

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