He spoke in stop lights
and poinsettias
when we had conversations.
I tried to tell him
about the language of canaries,
blue bonnets, and ivy covered walls,
but he insisted on strawberry meadows.
I never enjoyed the squishy texture,
but he chose to nibble on each seed
until it wedged between my teeth.
I asked him when we could enjoy clear blue skies
but he wrapped every sentence in ribbons.
I felt tongue-tied in knotted topics
and he smoothed out the edges
with red flags and crayons.
Poetic Trials 