Why is blue the color of this commandment?

Why is milk the flavor that comforts my tongue?
I taste milk even when I’m drinking water,

tepid and smooth, from a bottle jeweled with bubbles.
The bottle is blue. The bubbles pop like stars,
as if I was up close, an eternity

of concern cradling them in the dark skies.
I missed the changing of the new moon this month.
I missed the flowers that squirm from underneath
last years’ leaves along the creekbank in the park

only a few blocks away. Violets, squill,
trillium. It’s too early for columbine,
and it’s been years since I’ve seen dutchman’s breeches
or bloodroot, startlingly white, as if bleached

in sun and salt, while really they hide in shade.
Deep purple dye from ancient sea snails turns blue
only when left in sunlight. It turns dark blue,

dark as midnight, the time of prayers before sleep,
the time of listening, of shrinking to one —

one sky, one sigh, one breath, one blue, one thread. One.

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