In Your Blue Poem

Sky, of course, as obvious as rain.
Two children fishing from a bridge.
October, we will say, and maybe cattle
far off, grazing some long hill.
No place, really, in such a story
for turquoise or topaz, nor even
one shrill jay upon a stump of fence.
Perhaps a dusty scattering of wrens,
one brown cat sleeping on some straw,
the hired man at work inside the barn
daydreaming days with horses.
He steps outside to light a cigarette
as the children abandon the creek
and turn towards home.
The tall grass and the trees.
Then the mother steps out onto the porch.
The wind lifts the hem of her blue dress
and she stands, just that bit of color
framed by the gray house and winter
coming in behind her from the north.