Passibility

As I was leaving Grandma’s, and I crossed

the Wilson Bridge, something struck me softly:

pink-gray expanse engulfed the entire view,

transmuting the farther distances to blue,

while mirror-still Potomac had received

the delicatest orange streaks of sky

and offered them towards my passing eyes.

How I ached for stillness then!

Yet in my angst,

fumbled blindly beneath me for my phone

to try to steal those colors for my own,

and look upon them later;

but I knew,

even then, as I drove absurdly with

my right hand stretched out sunwards, tapping madly,

my left hand on the wheel, my eyes stuck front,

absorbing what periphery they could,

that not one blurry image that I took

could move as beauty moved in quietness,

or steal away so gently me within.