Today as I sat motionless beneath a two-way stoplight, I looked up and noticed a gap in the steel, perfectly framing a bookmark-sized patch of the purest blue sky.
It was mesmerizing. Suspended above a cloudless tree line it floated like soapy cashmere and I couldn’t turn away. I wondered what Benjamin Moore or Sherwin Williams would call this color. Maybe Mountain Columbine or December Frost; Shadows on Pavement or Starched Oxford.
I imagined how perfect it would look spread evenly in Martha Stewart’s spare bedroom, trimmed with thick white woodworking, a backdrop to her Nantucket wrought iron bed. Quilted bedding just in from the line exudes the heady perfume that only mother nature can manufacture; hydrangeas burst from a glassy globe, beckoning visitors stay just a moment more.
Maybe someone feel in love there, in Martha Stewart’s spare bedroom. Maybe a college acceptance letter was opened and read, joy muffled so as to not disturb a fussy souffle still in the oven.
Maybe Benjamin Moore found his inspiration there, just like I did. Perhaps he looked up from his parked buggy and caught a patch of sky between the branches of trees–between the dance of autumn leaves.
Beauty’s everywhere this time of year. Where have you found it?