The sun is finished with the mountains. She has
Spilled all her paints on westward slopes
But still has her box of broken pastels
To smear white and pink over blue
Like an upended chalk drawing.
I raise my hand to the sky
Which blinded me blue
This morning in the
Chapel clerestory.
But now, mute,
Meets my
Fingers.
They come away white and pink and blue.