Kimono

Your dead mother’s kimono fades in blue
chrysanthemum and shaded green leaf, 
but you have only one word for both 
dolorous colors. Never mind. 
Many seaside dwellers draw no 
line between watery hues, 
unsurprised by the vagaries
of the salty kaleidoscope. 
Shifts of light, angle, distance, 
even wind can gust green 
from the purest cerulean blue. 
Time, too, is as fluid 
as a noose. What’s blue 
doesn’t stay blue any more
than what’s past. 
Every New Year you unfold
your mother’s empty kimono. 
Every morning you rise
on your island of Now, 
surrounded by blue blue Time.