The Bottles Color the LIght

The bottles color the light. Ranks of them.
Cobalt blue each one beautiful with the sun.
Antiques in a corner. Even with the dust, they glow.

The bottles color the light.
Blue as a Mississippi song. Beautiful. Sad.
The color of melancholy. The color, for you,

Of survival. Of realizing how much you can lose
and still scramble your way to contentment.
It’s an everyday thing. Never mind the bigger battles,
You have your own skirmishes.

In another corner of the shop there are red bottles.
Deep cranberry red. Garnet red. The color of prayer.
The color of passion.

Those two have never failed you. Even unanswered
they live in the darkest places with their own glow.
You are not even sure if they need the sun,
sure you have lived without it at times.

In the end, you buy a blue one. Just one.
you do not need the room colored blue,
just enough space on the window sill,
catching the sun, reminding you

that this too, you will survive
with prayer and passion.
It is your nature. It is your gift.

About this poem

Prayer and passion seem inate to me. Even in my worst times they have gotten me through. Even without answers. Even alone, those two things have kept the heart from turning to stone. I am grateful. Also about old bottles. I have a few blue ones punctuating my kitchen window sills.

The picture was taken in an antique store in Cambridge, NY.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom