Softly the eyelid blinks
Much like a night star winks
Waiting for morn, it thinks
About the brand new day.

Visions of the sky links
The mind to the eye, sinks
Memory deep in rinks
Where whispers go to play.

Bright blues of the sky we drink
And pale golds of sun we ink
Into tiny word chinks
That think, but can not say

What they feel. My sky is pink.
There are holes in the mink
Coat– and holes in the boat sink
The poor old day away.