~ * ~
Her colors of spring make Monet revel, they would.
Impressionist pointillisms of Signac and Seurat,
Apples to oranges and golds to blues,
Hues to dots and patterns to images,
Or not.
Sometimes, not, as bursts of shape vibrate shapeless.
The lucid colors of another season blossoms in our souls.
Lift on the wings of song and forge the skies breathless art.
For we are, graciously, your faithful keepers of the third kind.
~ * ~
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