The Colors of Nothing

The colors of nothing hold so much
as my breath beneath the heavy stillness.
The whiteness of air breaks into grey and
becomes nothing of reflections it once held.
I am but a reflection of white, then nothing,
then… a cloud, expectant as the rain it holds,
but waits for sad trees to shiver from winds
carrying the colors of nothing that paint
their leaves.

The colors of nothing scream like mutes
and cold stars, far from particles that
move in me, passing through light, fading
in earth. Soil and rock stare up at sky with
little longing to be more, and me, in between
with palette in hand, colors dripping from my
fingers. I am no artist and have only so many
colors of my own that dream with rainbows
under moons.

The colors of nothing are gently lapping against
Horizon’s shore and then recede back upon
the Day’s end, revealing wet days past
filled with colors that did not wash from the
canvas. My colors are elemental and bleed onto
rocks that never breathe life despite the brilliance
they may sparkle.