“How are you?”
They ask the millionth time.
My blue heart winces inside.
Light chatter, then prance away.
“Father,” I whisper above,
“I’m blue, through and through.”
“Blue, my child?” I hear.
The wind rushes through my hair,
Sunning my wilting soul.
“You were not created blue; at times,
You’ll feel blue through and through.
Then look up, child. See:
My sun still shines.”