On gentle hills and golden grass,
the wind and the moon played an orchestra.
Her reflection and his, made
contact in the glass.
His arms pinned at his sides,
in her close embrace.
Wildflowers were their only friends.

Let us break the heart of the air, she whispered.
And paint the leaves in green and red,
or colors that don’t exist.
Let us walk barefoot through the years.

One recent morning,
resting against their pillows – floral.
Drinking coffee in bed – black.
Looking good – not great.
No screaming in pain. Quiet as in church.
She wrote a note:
“The butterflies are flying away.”

– S
Toronto – April 22, 2012