As long as my breath still catches in my throat at a tinge of pink on the western horizon at sunrise—I’m good.
I’m really not sure I want to live without being moved. And, well, not being moved…can one call that life in any case?
But this morning, here they are! The pinks!
I could watch their shades all day. How they go from rose-pink to pink-pink to peach-pink to pale-yellow-pink.
The way they spread themselves like a curtain, drape themselves across all these accommodating clouds, without which, they would be diluted beyond detection, lost to distance.
These daily clouds of ours, what are they but canvasses?