Sunday

Dot, why did you write these words?

They are your words, George.

The ones you muttered so often when you worked.

Order.

Design.

Tension.

Composition.

Balance.

Light.

Dot, I cannot read this word.

Harmony.

Sunday, by the blue purple yellow red water / So much love in his words

Forever with his colors. / On the green purple yellow red grass

How George looks. / As we pass through arrangements of shadows / He can look forever.

What does he see?

His eyes, so dark and shiny / Towards the verticals of trees/ So careful, so exact

Forever

By the blue purple yellow red water

On the green orange violet mass of the grass

In our perfect park

Made of flecks of light

And dark

And parasols

People strolling through the trees

Of a small suburban park

On an island in the river

On an ordinary Sunday

Sunday

Sunday

White. A blank page or canvas.

His favorite.

So many possibilities.