If I ever have a son,I*ll tell him the sky was denim,stone washed blue, a hand like suede. An indelible image.
Light filtered through rustling leaves like some delicate open fabric, made lace shadows on the grass. If there was rain it arose without cause. Clouds were auras around the sun. Puddles were dazzling, liquid fire. Along the water*s edge purple irises never lost their graceful bearing. You can call me muddy and confused. If our stories diverge, you can say I*m misremembering. The day was turbid, brown. An unfriendly wind bent the line of blooms in different directions. For years you pored over the book of purposes only to conclude that gray gloom entrenched that day never to release its grip. So be it. Remembered or recast, I*ll retain my belief in denim sky.