Muted Day (Poem)

On a soft, muted day

cupping a fragile evening in my hands,

lacing my fingers through twilight hours,

I lay myself, naked, down upon

      a field of emerald green grass,

to feel blind poems etch themselves

across my whisper-quiet skin.

...And trembling slightly under the vast pressure

      of so ink-black a sky,

I sigh a tender sigh,

heavy with moments

of life sketches and drawings

traced when I used to

smile at the color of the morning and the smell of love on my fingertips.

Still, naked

speckled with falling stars,

I gently blow the fragile evening

as one would dandelion seeds

during a summer picnic,

and watch twilight swirl around dusk, each distinct hour

journey upon its own path into a new day.