The Bird's Color

The afternoon light shifted then,

a duller cast on windowpane.

Until my eye fell on, and when

it saw the bird, again, again.

A ceramic thing, chipped and small,

that sat upon the sill so long.

Its glaze, a color to enthrall,

so vivid, sharp, and deeply strong.

Not sky, not sea, but something more,

a jolt of pigment, pure and bright.

It opened up a silent door,

to memory, to stark delight.

That sudden blue, a potent hue,

that pulled the ordinary through.