I’ve seen the silhouette of the timekeeper,
whose watch runs too quickly.
And the tracks that can only travel so far.
Yet I search for the distilled moments
in your eyes.
I’d rather the silence only Tuscan houses witness,
the hum that carries the dandelion seeds
and a grass stained summer dress at the end of the night.
A myriad of colored bricks line the street to your studio.
And scrolls of ink will retell our dates with the rain.
An iris in the braided strands of my springtime hair.
There’s ecstasy in the sound of your laughter,
and a simple satisfaction
in our paper love.
