Red roses on a working canvas. Trampling
used to be my speciality; now it is up to the doves
who grace the balcony window in harmonious flight.
Do the stars know you by now? They must. The way
you held your wrist up to the lowest branch
of the elm tree, the way your bare toes whispered
over dew-soaked meadows. I remember the days
when we counted colors like window panes
and spread ourselves under oak bushes armed
in violet summer petals. The sun could not hold
enough for us. Now I spend that gathered grace and
stroke the weathered canvas resting on the wall.
My tongue stumbles in its restlessness.
These days are the best of all.