White

It does not fade with the melting snownor does its crystal perfume vanish
It lingers, in the soft curves of blooming petals
in puffs against the cerulean blue sky.
on the edges of the sky, resting on hilltops
It bleeds, from the skin of people onto their clothes
as one darkens and the other lightens
It smells no longer of crystals but of
grass and dirt and sun and sky