Paint me a picture
of muddy ecru, cinnamon
of streets awash in umber,
sepia.
Pointillist
glints of color
reflected from umbrellas and raincoats
flashes of christmas red and green.

Of a warm pub
In early afternoon
Smoke and beer and wet wool
smells
wrinkling your nose
but it is the best place to warm
and scribble notes of the afternoon
in nottingham.


I'll paint you a picture
of crystal clear washed air
and unreasonable
miraculous
november sunshine
so bright we wince
Sweet gums every color from liquid lizard green
through gold and orange magenta purple
the froufrou cancan girl of trees.

Despite the shardlike brilliance
here
the weather I feel
the color I see
is your smoky
English cold and drip
brown grey umber drab
not this
bright california candy.


With you gone
I lose my words.
I cannot write
or barely
The writing turns primitive
A
     word
           here

a word

                 there

But my river of words
dries up to mere splashes
on the page

Small, disconnected
discolored
tea colored pools

No clear laughing
chattering, giggling stream.


How much of that creative
river we share
becomes inaccessible
when you're not here.

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