In my heart I want to tell you, About the flowers of the day, In the cool slip of night you did not touch, In the land we held alive Amidst the yawning afterglow, Of colors that will never rise again.

Blue like the sleeping spirit, Golden like the sun-kissed ground, Would you hold each petrichor in your hands, Or laugh through clenched teeth when the moon smiled down?

• Gwendolyn Brooks