On some days the sky is not cerulean blue,
it is not azure or indigo,
nor is it the tint of someone’s grandmother’s antique ewer.
It cannot be compared to the aquamarine,
or the ultramarine of the sea,
or your lover’s memorable eyes;
It defies classifications on spectra or color-wheels,
spinning, spinning the names of the layers of light.
On those days, we look up and though astounded,
we are content to plunge through the labyrinth of words and reconsider the sound and sense of the unassuming word blue.