She sits above the fray of
purple and orange and pink and blue,
too pure, too white, to busy herself
with the nonsense of light
sprawled beneath her.
She’s finally at that time where her
whole face can glow to the ground.
She won’t waste a second of her time
with anything less than herself.
Yet the ground isn’t interested.
It spends what remaining sunlight
there is on tracing its fingers along
the colors’ path, trying to pretend
for a moment that the ground
can paint the sky.
So she stands, mouth open in surprise,
at turned-away eyes.