The delicate bracts of bougainvillea,
bright red, purple, pink: That is you.
And the little whirlwind of its swirling
leaves on the ground, the dry warm air
rising, short-lived. It's July now.
Never do you see clouds so defined
and tangible you could hold and
shape them if you wished very hard
you were that tall.
Do you see the faint moon climbing,
fading into sight? I see her at six now.
She is waiting, patiently, for the sun
to go down a sky of azurite. I kept
telling you, the whole time, we are lucky.
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