When my father was dying,
the skin around his eye turned purple
just from the slight pressure of it leaning on the hospital pillow.
I wondered at it
and thought of the purple shell
its broken edges worn smooth by the sea
I had found at the ocean that winter.
my mother called and told me her feet were turning colors.
Red, purple, blue, black, and red again.
I saw an octopus dreaming.
Then felt the horror
of what all those colors might mean
for my mother’s 92-year-old feet.
This morning as I put hay in the feeder
the mountains were a haze of pink.
They turn colors too.
instead of a flat outline
the snow and bare trees made the mountains three-dimensional.
I could finally see the waves of hills that they really are.
Laid bare by the cold
and lit by the morning sun
I could see their beautiful old bones.