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By Linnae Conkel
I stare at the sky through uncleaned glass, white moon glowing purely back. A wash brush has coated the moon-sky in a watery, periwinkle blue, chilled lighter yet by the icy whiteness of the moon. Blue gently falls and then feathers into purple: pastel and then plum and then shards of violet—a dimming stroke balancing on the earth.
And the white moon glows.
It beams at its cousin on the other end of the sky, an orb of brightened gold, touched with water, spilling and melting, drooping and merging with the intense fiery red of a lingering dusk-stroke. This red has been brushed and thinned even more, sinking into a rosiness that pales into white on the horizon.
And the bright sun sinks.
And the white moon glows.
Skies darken. Midnight merges, blue and purple, purple and blue. Indigo among a cloud-patched sky. Dusk-strokes fade, dark chasing light. Sighs of rosy white melting away.
And the sky-throne looms in its robe of indigo, watching
as the rosy white melts
the bright sun sinks
and the white moon glows.