Do you remember
the morning November
smelled of wet lumber
and eucalyptus leaves?
Inside, we drank water
and listened to Satie.
You painted paper
white narcissus
with a putty knife.
I folded paper into white
cranes, wings akimbo.
The sky turned indigo.
I discovered
we also do
what we don't do.
My memory holds
echoes of bronze bells
that were empty bowls.
Appeared in The Mayo Review.
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