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.