The deepest green
becomes nearly black night,
the somnolent depth
of coniferous forests in winter
where light dims
as though a blanket as been thrown over.
That blackest green is
the sound of the deafening silence of sleep,
But even in the blackest night,
somewhere there must
be a star.
Painting: Nocturne in Black and Gold - The Falling Rocket, by James Whistler