Gift

It was a gift this morning…
Not a breath of wind;
The earth still warm, 
Held below 
Threads of spun gold,
Ribboned across
Mauve velvet 
In folds like of a sumptuous throw.
Blush and rose, like brushed floss 
Defined in elegance
Yet transient and fluid  
Brightening with every breath.  
Hues morphed, 
Second on second
Contrasts blurred,
Until all was gold
And lost to memory.