Snow blows from the mountains’ white caps
like strands of silver hair from crinkled hats
as she sits below at a classroom desk
behind narrow frosted windows,
in a cobalt town cradled
by the blurry guidelines of home,
thinking there may be something askew
about the color blue
and what lives within,
be it birds of a feather or fluther of jellies,
flocks or schools, folk or fools.
It bit like the teeth of her zipper,
stitched fire-red fleece
over her darting heart
in the shadows of zigzag houses
that loomed, blinding views of the sky,
the boundless sapphire height
awaiting her depth.
Years later she can barely remember the blue,
scissored from her memory
after she dreamt and forgot,
released a cold-veined clot,
and time let the warmth bleed through.
