The automatic tinge of orange and purple
In the sunrise is a renaissance each day
There is an aching in the morning light.
It is a painful resurgence, the morning
It is a high sign, a tip off when the flowers open
The sky is a gauze, so thin as to transmit light.
Cerulean, a clear October sky.
And oxblood, a moderate, reddish brown.
These colors are compounded,
beginning to anesthetize me.
Putting me to sleep.
A siren alerts the forest and the shadows.
The sky rattles and the mountains quietly stir
The world has an enthusiasm, the world
Is almost fairy. An ocean engulfs its dwellers
A fog arrives, on time, a slowly creeping lapse.
It is a sign that we should leave.
I imagine a scorpionfish when I look at you;
One with a mighty visage, a scowl
One found in the Atlantic Ocean by himself.
And I imagine myself, a great horned owl.
Two tufts on my head;
coming from the tundra edges.
The potent fog saturates everything it can touch,
Producing a lack of color under the orangey-purple sky.
Earthworms move the earth slowly beneath me.
Fertilizing the earth. Its axis on a tilt.
I would give it you.
may I be your bride?