Colors have no need for praise,
They seldom hold to subtlety.
They cannot hold eternity.
A suited tenure could be glaze.
Upon a surface they gently graze.
The thicket hollow with its ash,
A quiet hue of restful art,
So that trees can’t be told apart,
The darkness does to hide a gash,
Enchanting with its somber flash.
All things romantic tend to be black,
Best camouflage for small mistakes,
Ignoring what existence makes.
It also hides what good they lack,
Not knowing when the light comes back.
The trees are shadows for the snow,
Silhouettes who outlast their theme,
Dark lines that withstand a dream.
As limbs are covered with silky glow,
Their shaking sleeps. The night is slow.
Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre
PS: I took the picture too [:
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