The red orange sky kicked me in the face.
This Sunrise gone so pink, so deep, so dark,
So hot lava pink lemonade so quick back to blue hue.
If it were red every morning....
It’s like that old saying about the stars...
If the stars only came out once a year, how we’d all gather, stay up late, turn off Netflix and sleep in early.
How we’d all know how to be silent and watch a sky like a poet.
How we could call that, should call that, must call that night the poet's.
When the stars come out. On the one night of the year, the single night of the year, when the stars come out and we are all silent all night.
We’re all struck all night, we're all humbled dizzy for a night, that one night, the poet's paradise night, that one night of the year the stars come out.
Is there no love note better than the stars in the sky?
What more can we need for proof but to look up?
When did wonder turn to numbers?
When did awe necessitate a ruler? A measurement other than Big B Beauty?
Cosmetics are created to honor to try and match what that night sky, that cielo nocturno, can do in any language.
The stars are as forgotten, in Spanish as they are in French, Arabic, Russian, Japanese, Chinese and English.
The stars are forever forgotten without The Poet.
When the dream of the starry night seems to end, the dream goes on and dreams the reminder that Heaven is here.
Right there look look look the star in your pocket, on your phone.
On that screen, there are stars where stars need to be.
Wherever they might best get your attention.
What are the stars for if not to demand your attention?
A reminder that without your recognition no celestial body would exist.
Least of all a country pink lemonade sky
Lava rolling a fir topped horizon above a townhouse at sunrise.
The man on the top floor, through the bay window, just under the horizon line running on his treadmill the way he does everyday at exactly 5am.
Today it’s ten of and there’s that pink orange sky that kicked me in the face.