by Peter Saint-Andre

My friend is a cobalt poetry goddess:
She turns her phrases with a quiet power
And dances among her words with style and grace,
   Like Sappho herself.

But she's often, so often, blue: the color
Of the twilight sky, deep and clear, bordering
On the blackest night, yet never losing hold
   Of the light of day.

Sometimes I wish I could brighten her a shade
Or two — make her azure or cerulean.
But then I know I'd never want to change her
   Blue poetic soul.

Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire