She puts on her shoes,
bracing for the horrors outside.
Shakily, she grabs the doorknob.
It is gray and cold.
She finds herself wishing it was the same outside.
She pulls open the door,
and before her shining innocent eyes, she sees
that the air is yellow,
and it’s like life is a sepia filter,
that the sky is a void of white,
the white clouds and orange sun have been sucked in,
a large cloud hangs over and watches,
but it’s not fog.
She slings her backpack on and opens the storm door.
A smell of campfire consumes her nose,
burning wood and cruel gray smoke.
The air feels thick and heavy.
The smoke lingers, not resting until
they have felt the pain of the fires.
Was life ever any other color?
What did mornings used to smell like?
She can’t remember.
The thickness of the smoke weighs her down.
What was the real color of the trees?
What was the real smell of morning dew?
The smoke clouds her memory,
just like it clouds her lungs.
The air is yellow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: This poem is about a real experience I have had recently, because some wildfires caused by the summer heat had caused smoke to drift into the place where I live, so the air quality was really bad because the air was filled with smoke particles and it smelled like a campfire basically everywhere, and yeah, the air actually was yellow. I know other places that have wildfires all the time have this much worse, but I hadn't seen this before I had written this poem, so that's why I decided to write it. It is a tad bit depressing, but don't worry, the smoke has mostly cleared now.
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