I.
Sunlight threads through tulip cloth.
Felted door hums with welcome.
Purple glass bends over plates,
grape-leaf chairs hold dinner’s truth.
Steam and silver pass between—
hands that stirred and fed with grace.
Every meal a quiet rite.
Every laugh, a planted seed.

II.
Artichokes bow under palms.
Blooms emerge like sudden crowns.
Iris blinks from corner beds,
bottlebrush flames by the glass.
North wall rows of careful red—
grandpa warns of webs beneath.
We still steal the sweetest fruit.
We still heed the myth of fangs.

III.
Lipstick scrawled across new walls—
soft rebellion, brightly smeared.
Even saints must raise their voice.
Even peace can burn a while.
Firelogs wait in brown paper.
Matches long as hope strike gold.
Heat becomes a family hymn.
Even ashes hum of love.

IV.
He naps in the evening hum,
paper tented on his chest.
Game plays low, a second breath.
I become his steady tide.
In that hush I learn the shape
of a life that asks for rest.
Stillness drapes us both like wool.
Even silence pulls me close.

V.
Wet cement receives our hands.
Stone records the shape of joy.
Letters soften, moss will come,
but those prints will not be lost.
Small chairs scatter on the deck,
mustard smears on smiling lips.
Smoke from grills and summer grass—
a feast to remember us.

VI.
The canal held secret war.
We believed the ships could hide.
Fingers laced with someone’s hand
taught me trust before the tide.
Dust and dusk held every step.
Wind rehearsed our whispered games.
Some beliefs outlive their use—
some still bloom when we return.

VII.
Now I walk the edge of age,
still becoming who I am.
The house remains in the sun,
still, the tulips stitch me whole.
When I pass the garden beds,
I can smell her gentle thread.
Love survives in scent and soil.
The past remains, not behind.