A Cloud, of the Number Nine

The number nine, when said, is a bright red! Such a ruby gleam! As pleasant as a red rose that holds the morning's raindrops that will then slide silently off its petals, within the bushes planted by a child of nine years. On a lake a godly muse- nine sails, that glide, hushed, under the evening sky's blood that slowly seeps into "number nine" clouds that are bursting clots. Or they are dyed-saffron carnations, worn with a kiss... of a night walker's lips. For the "A Time for Nine" contest. May 16, 2021