Blameless Blue

My melancholy muse meditates, mulls without cease
Rumors of demise, demesnes of decrease
As fire-fingered freaks of evening flame
Flare glory along the Catskill skyline's rock crease
And die to dithering greys, fisted blacks.

A neighbor in the near-distance roasts
Runt apples rumbled from the roof in a blaze 
Of sage gone to seed, weed trees and dry roots.
The apples are sweet, and of sufficient tooth 
To give them dreams of nectar and of ruth.

Bear what dreams may come in spreading night 
And sleep the long hours inured to fright 
That comes to tell us nothing;  nothing true.
Two mood rings roll along the bedstand, blue.