I do not ask for much, merely a long
and languorously lived moment like this
now and again, the sky a muddle of
silver, pale blue, and rose, precarious
as though a sudden wind might tip the whole
and undecided firmament, sorting
the odd competing hues, settling the sky
into a stable, monochromatic,
and pasteurized pastel; or raking it
so that the tones, genteely, separate
into polite and segregated bands,
azure above and fading slow stepwise
into that sun-illuminated pink,
the gray between. Such resolution fails
at times like this, and each atom of sky,
each particle of air resplendent, shows
all of these variegated shades at once,
unceasing for a moment languorous
and long. I do not ask for much, merely
this sky, the gray of Artemisia
and faded, pale cerise playing upon
the distant ranges, sunset-lit against
encroaching night; the blue of chicory
shut tight along the road, the silver-blue
of turquoise set in sterling on her wrist,
Cortez a growing light off to the east
and darkening horizon, beckoning
an hour off, warm food there, and a place
for us to sleep is there, but not just yet.

1. 
   beth 2008 02 05 at 8:13:35 am

   Yes. And beautifully written, Chris.

2. 
   Isabel 2008 02 06 at 7:42:43 pm

   My goodness. This is simply beautiful.

3. 
   Tonya 2008 02 17 at 12:28:13 pm

   Indeed.