He pushes some things off of Paul’s chair –
a swirly sky of stars,
a couple sleeping on a hay stack.
I stub my toe on pair of old black boots,
brush my elbow on some cherry blossoms,
“Just a few things I’m working on,
they’re not done yet.”
He wipes a smudge of paint from his cheek,
gestures with a paintbrush,
getting yellow on the floor.
So much beauty scattered about
it’s hard to squeeze through
without knocking over
a vase of dandelions.