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. 

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