Apricot Poem by Avery Koplin

In the soft hush of morning, apricot spills across the sky,
a tender smear of color, just a breath above the horizon.
The world holds its exhale,
and for a moment, everything is the shade of ripened summer.

Apricot in the air,
a whisper of fruit on the tongue, sweet and light,
blooming like the first petal of a sunrise.
It clings to the edges of everything—
the trees, the earth, the very pulse of time.

The warm warmth of apricot,
like sunlight through a window,
bathed in a glow that makes the world feel just a little softer,
a little more alive.
Not quite orange, not quite yellow,
but somewhere in between,
a perfect balance of sweetness and warmth,
a quiet dance between dawn and dusk.

Apricot, in the quiet of the evening,
when the air is still and the sky holds the last remnants of daylight,
lingering just long enough to make everything glow.
A color that feels like a memory,
like a touch on the skin,
like a fleeting kiss of summer before it slips away,
like a permanent smear of beauty plastered all inside l'esprit,
fading gently into the night.