There is gray, I know
made from too many things.

It happens as each color turns
to fall in the colder (prediction)

Not as dumb luck thinks
blindness and black are one

But more like night, distantly
surrounded by a clarity of voices.

First -
Colors transfixed by the sun
hum immobile yet vibrant
when looking with the eye:
the yellow dot of a dandelion
flat on a brown dirt plane

Second -
Regalia shouldered piled on
with shovels against the hint
of stalking beasts, regalia lifting
imaginatively self's great sky
like a white winged animal spirit
birthed underwater from a crown
wishing to feed and roost

Third -
Orbits know nothing
of day and night
forever locked
in their occasionally
perturbed circles

Fourth -
Light is best
in transition
between day, night
with shadows
accentuating angles
enhancing the most
familiar dandelions

This happens as each color turns
to fall in the colder (prediction).

Time bends in loops like clowns crafting
rubber balloon sculptures for clapping kids.

In the gray that only knows itself
through the accident of strangers

Who could always use
just a little more and then...

Or kept rigidly denied just
for the hell of reinforcing
a struggle that never wins.

For who can hear what came
before everything was new?

Black is the combination
even washed, filtered into gray
clear as words through time
that seeds blow upon wind,
seen only in the light of midnight
by those far outdoors, past bedtime
while the children sleep within.