Yellow

Wake to an ocean fog
come a hundred miles inward.
Wrap your body in textiles (shades of gray)
and do your best to remain invisible
while you walk through a new-lit
universe. Your neighborhood
(old Datsun, tire swing, terra cotta planters)
like your eyelashes now, is covered in tiny grains of water
harvested from the sea this very night.
Unexpectedly, at the same time as this blue mist
subdued every shadow, deepened every green,
the yellows switched on, a low but steady current
rilling their veins with light.
A spire of limbs and leaves remembers
the pillar of fire. In open spaces, yellowed grass of summer
becomes a carpet of gold.
And sunflowers, heads just bent in thought
and prayer, are brighter than any porch light
left burning ’til dawn.

 

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