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,

or death.

But even in the blackest night,

somewhere there must 

be a star.

Painting: Nocturne in Black and Gold - The Falling Rocket, by James Whistler