Mid-September Blue

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.

Margaret Robinson

Leave a Reply