colorblind

the yellow tint of sun
against the pines
echoes green into orange
and orange into brown
until the sky's grey appears
deep blue

and the palette of your skin
is not the same
as the underside of your mother's
last wish to the man
in the black suit with white socks

and your favorite time of year
became the darkest
when the dusk shook away
into a spattering of empty stars
against a bright white sky

and the reflection of your own face
in the pool below you
became deep and rippled
like the impending sadness
of winter's promised rain