Red is more than they pretend,
green perceives more than leaves.

We stride beyond the pretty painters
tainting lemons with shades of blue.

We are dreamers of stars and moons
floating along fairy dusted corridors,

tasting sonnets laced with summer
and traces of vermilion petticoats in fall.

And all – all! – in such feral splendor
that even Velasquez would willing pause

for more than a summer in Seville
just for the chance to paint the seasons

I see swaying sweetly in your eyes.

17 August 2022


2 thoughts on “Tamara

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