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In the pink, by Britta Benson

This poem was inspired by watching a spectacular sky last afternoon, not long after sunset. You can read more about it on my daily blog, link below.

In the pink

There’s the blue words, like ‘thus’ and ‘forget’,

deep, deep beasts of saturated memory,

the loss of monotliths, wider than your hope.

Hard to imagine there could be room for more.

Then,

at the end of blue,

where you least expect it,

sits the pink.

You may think cute,

stubborn, petulant,

words to hold forever,

treasure, clutch and keep,

and you want to, you try,

‘dizzy’ and ‘flip’, ‘krill’,

slippy things, temperamental,

clouds in the sky announcing snow,

maybe now, maybe never,

future avalanches,

escaped before your fingers even close.

Pink leaves you waiting.

Guessing.

Sometimes just disappears.

Sometimes no such luck.

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