Does truth come in different colors,
like weather, the sky containing and dispensing
alternating moods by degree, whim, wind.
Temperature is a temperament, and now, the February
potion of a new year, spanked cold and colder
as it comes through. The window doesn’t bother
to elicit a response, not even silence, remains still,
impervious. But it was her yes to all things,
a silver sliver stuck near the ear, slithery by sound,
a hiss skidding through otherwise unremarkable air,
happenstance. Heard words, mute, unitalicized,
and all parts that did come with her – arms, legs, hair,
smile, a pleasance. Walking, parting air as she moved,
what and how. It was not yet despair, an affectionate
longing, or caress, the way strangers on a sidewalk
collide. No collusion, no conclusion, not keeping score.
But yes hers. Then, and decades later.