"What's your favorite color?" I whisper

"My favorite color?"

She leans against the tree

"My favorite color is like the wind-always changing

Some days, like in the summer,

when I feel wistful and restless,

my favorite color is a deep indigo purple,

the color of the ocean at the horizon.

"Other days, it's the deep green of a forest,

the kind that's almost black, but only when I feel relentlessly adventurous.

"Most days, though,

it's the blue ombré shades of the sky

on a partly-cloudy autumn day.

The color of dreams,

the brush strokes of hope.

The promise of a better tomorrow."

The whole time she spoke,

She watched the clouds,

Those small wisps of water vapor that could be whisked away by the wind at any second.

She could spin anything into something dramatic, everyone told me

But her words sounded perfect and poetic to me.