When I read your words my thoughts cascade in couplets: 
You’ve got me tuned into Phillies games on our little red  

transistor and seeing forsythia budding and blooming 
at the porch’s corner of my first home. I learned  

my phonics there, but couldn’t yet have deciphered  
“sun’s yellow lust.” That came later. And often left me  

blue like the sky you dream of spending days with. 
So now that I’m an old grandma just listening  

to the birds, the whippoorwill’s absence conjures 
an island of white space for me, both Dears of yours.  

There’s so much more to say; my hippocampus 
is firing full speed ahead like your Chevy Nova  

with its honking and hooting and seats complete 
with you, your weekend girls and me.