Count every low-hanging cloud as a luxury,
stoles and scarves wrapping their gray fingers
around the monotony of crisp autumn desires,
a reprieve to cycle out unused jackets and umbrellas,
the thumbprint of a lily pad enticing the sky
mirrored on the water’s surface to breathe,
so long as the treble closeness doesn’t drown
in the growling bass of every passing raindrop.
No, I’ll not call this filter a burden, but instead
count the hues of colors overlooked on sunny days.