You for whom Monday dawns bluely
Not blue of gentian, of cirrus-combed skies,
Not cornflower, powder, periwinkle,
But bottomless blue bruise of ice,
Of frozen feather in a fox’s footprint:
I will stitch you a cloak of comfort in Arnolfini greens,
Swaddle your sadness in robes of amethyst,
Wrap your sorrow in sun-warmed apricots and ambers,
Dry your tears with tissues of cadmium and canary,
Warm your heart with carnelian and coquelicot reds.
I would not see you blue
But if that is where you must be for now,
I will walk out across
This fragile crust of slippy-sided blueness
To hold your hand
Under the frozen brow
To wait with you
For rainbows.
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