The pensive sun is pondering sleep.
Its brilliance is seconds from perfection.
The clouds appear as wisps of long, fine hair with blond frosted tips.
The sky turns pinkish white first, then the color of fuchsia lipstick mixed with tangerine juice.
The gray-green windows of skyscrapers reflect back
the palette like mirrors.
At each other, at the lake, at me.
Hold your breath.
The world seems serene, and hopeful, and at peace.
And it seduces me into feeling a little this way, too.
When we were children and the sky shone like this?
My mother would whisper to us,
“God is making cotton candy.”
I love cotton candy.