Ask for some modern poems about sky blue, only describing the color, not the sky.

One spring, my little yak and my single plow were lying flat outside the wooden window. A small group of the sun came along the fence. The sky-blue petals began to bend, and the dew was afraid to wet a memory. The frightened waxbill looked at the celestial pole. I have to work. I want to choose the seeds in my dream, let them shine in my palm and all fall into the water.