I set the alarm for sunrise minus ten

dress quickly in the clothes I laid out

on the chair the night before,

go down the stairs,

counting off the two flights,

knees stiff, reluctant

but obedient.

 

How many mornings

sloth-like did I cling to the bed

while the sky rioted

ignored?

 

I watch the sunset

the gradual fading colors

the deepening shadows

that I had been too busy

to pause and observe --

honor --

How many times?

How many years?

 

Astar or wanderer

reveals in the blue black sky

catching my breath,

moments later joined

by a Van Gogh ecstacy

whirling in the lens of my tears

 

And I wonder --

will I remember color?

The subtle variations of red --

The sun through the haze of smoke

from the forest fires

or the maple leaves in Oregon --

almost pink

or cardinals --

will I remember the difference

between a cardinal's scarlet

and the flash of a red winged blackbird?

​

Will I remember?

Will I remember?

Will I remember?