The sky, the sky beyond the door is blue.

The world is so depressing which is why the sky is usually blue.

The sky is blue so we know where to stop mowing.

We have been knocking on everyone's door. My knuckles are blue.

The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.

I have been here before./ But when or how I cannot tell:/ I know the grass beyond the door,/ The sweet keen smell,/ The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.