The color of a storm has always evaded me.

I see the obvious shades of gloom,

sadness and loss. Farewell to a friend

boarding a plane that will fly above

anywhere a storm could touch.

Though silver strands wrap neatly in her bun.

Circles of decades cascade into snow-white rivers

when let down to touch, to brush before bed.

They catch the light straining to push through,

to give hope times will pass (or time will tell).

Deeper shades bruise from the injured and torn,

the small, unkept and ignored, from the glow behind.

The color, almost eggplant in a garden, plump and fat,

demanding sky’s attention to her splendor

over the carrots and potatoes, she basks…

As t...

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