The water made this. Water, a patient artist. Gradual stone eternally changing, holds water as she endlessly flows. Maybe this is how one loves the other. My husband is lead drummer in a bagpipe band.
Love can be so cruel.
On a barstool He has bought a hundred times or more With coins gratefully accepted From passing strangers' hands. You promised rain after midnight, spelling an end to a week that turned green mangos to rot, Fletcher and Floyd into panting black rugs. The sun rose in a bar, blood-orange over deep blue, like a musical note in counterpoint to the plain and watery air. Just so, I felt our love, contrapuntal, me bright orange and you deep and blue. The marsh and swamp where we walked revealed sandy-colored deer slots, overgrown wild grapes, faded purple, and one ancient turtle, ochre with mud.