Number 9 Blues

Those eyes,
that song,
a bird the color
of the moon
we met under.

The wind
a ribbon of sadness.
Cold hands,
broken heart—
all the hue
of a trumpet’s lonely staccato.

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-four-5/ The prompt was to write an enigma poem.  Every line in this poem has something in common. Up to you to make the connection.