In a quiet tone she asked,
Momma, why is the night sky pink?
I watched her in the rear view mirror,
Her young mind lay full of wonder,
Her dark brown eyes, sleepy.
The conversation, used tactfully,
as minor attempt to fight the sleep that lay before her.
We pushed down the hushed, sleeping street.
Rows of houses dark, mailboxes tightly sealed.
No busy squirrels gathering food.
Just her and I.
It isn’t often that I am asked a question that I cannot answer.
So, I answered with a story.
The sky, like people,
Has a love of color.
Similar to the colorful shirts we wear,
The sky is a wardrobe for our eyes.
For us to look up to it,
To admire the many ways,
Its clothing for the day, compliments the moment we are given.
To acquire indebtedness for this world, our lives.
And like us, it has many moods that change.
For if we ignore the beauty all around us,
We are not truly living.
She pondered this for a moment,
Then replied,
Momma, tonight the sky feels love.
Poet's Corner 