The Mote

A bed bleached of light, day
zippered up by blinds,
as befits the aged, a world of grey
fabric plied with lines

through which poke glib clues
to the exuberance
outside, motes of yellows, greens, and blues:
yellow for the palms, green for hints

of pool, and blue for sky,
oceanic notes for those to whom
the whole view is denied,
doomed by grief or gloom

to be on the wrong side
of worlds only half displayed:
each soul’s divide
between the sun and shade.

March 22nd, 2023
Kaiholu