Your sunshine dawns a shy-like doe
and the cityscape becomes a fawn,
softening to your calming touch
as grey becomes a pussywillow fog,
white, an ancient ivory tusk,
black, your young son's charcoal drawing
of a frog. These days
your wintry smile reflects off snirt
that glistens fresh from toppings
of vanilla snow and come the summer
shakes off dirt from listening leaves
with each guffaw. I call
to banish colors that you don't allow
upon your sunny palette of pastels:
flesh-bruised purple and guilt-stained black,
the midnight blues of Hell.
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