To Emily

Rugs worn and flecked with oranges and reds...

Like permanent furniture laze the beasts.

What is the use of chairs when there’s a floor?

Deep grooves are left by the bicycle treads;

The tires kick up grit after the rain ceased,

Winding along the wide river of lore.

Tangles of emerald seaweed float up,

Swirling into islands, we bundle them -

For what reason I will not ever know.

An offering of warm milk in teacups...

Smiles lighting up when you appear, a gem,

Back and forth across an ocean indigo.

Now four years or five? My mind has slanted -

Either way, I am ever enchanted.