I’ll bet Petrarch was too smart
to take on a stone-washed autumn
sky. That exact hue – what a dumb
subject for a poet. Canvas art’s
the way to jump. Still my eyes dart
to where the leaves gently tumble
near cerulean. Even if my words fumble,
I, brushless, still play a part,
murmur flat, matte, aqua, azure
while sun pours color on my face,
a touch lively as a baby’s laugh
at heaven’s radiance. Pleasure
grows as the warm days race.
Here’s my chance to let blue last.