The blue hour is a magic hour
even though it does not last
an hour, fleeting as life
and fragile as beauty.
So much grief can be found
in beauty, the melancholic blue
of Picasso’s old guitarist
colored by poverty, loss, despair.
Such blueness is sacred,
transcendent in its deepness,
serene. I am overwhelmed
by past, present, and future loss.
The Blue Morpho lives only
115 days, the cornflower not even
a full summer. Each forget-me-not
holds a sun within its blue petals.
Age has begun to lighten the blue
of my imperfectly curved eyes.
I may have one more hour to navigate
through my life, or fifty years.
An indigo bunting looks for stars
to guide its nocturnal journey,
but I am untethered and lost in blue.
The rarest color in Nature is blue.
