When she is around, Henry,
she is like the sunset
just before a rain,
clouds of purple and red
like an afternoon at the Norton Simon,
staring at van Gogh's
yellow Mulberry Tree
like a good glass of cabernet
like a call from an old friend
like a hug from your mother.
She is like spying an old couple
side by side on a park bench,
holding hands and sharing a smile.
She is like a pint of Guinness from
tap as it settles to its
dark, creamy extra stout.
We always sat in deep
conversation of music and wine
and childhood memories,
of oil streaked lovers hanging
next to the over used board
that reads "drink specials" in blue chalk.
Her long black curls brush my cheek
like a feather as I whisper in her ear
about color and stroke.