izz_midnight

I’ll share a moment with you.

The day is lowering into eve 
tucked in by our February smoke 
the color of whiskey and gravel, 
and the yard is reminiscent 
like a memory of a memory. 

I am many people and one person.

I am the poet, who sees in shades of red and orange,

Red hair and pale skin that refuses to tan under the summer sky.

That girl married her city, her people,

If purple is the hardest color
For the eye to see
Then maybe all us purple-lovers
Are seers to the fairylands
Where dawn spirits sing
And poet bells ring
Harbingers of the night
To our awaiting ears.