You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the maple leaves falling from a hibernating tree
and the milk a Russian Blue laps up.

However, you are neither the healthy green grass
nor the rays that burn skin to gold.
You are not the tree turning bare for the next year
or the satisfied cat.

Ask me and I will say;
you cannot be the bright, new dandelion yellow lace dress
she flaunts to her enemies.
But you can be the washed out blue t-shirt she wears the day after.

You are the gray wallpaper behind each handcrafted masterpiece.