You opened me like a book
thumbed through the pages
of boldly outlined pictures
mercurially finding one you
chose your weapon from
boxed arsenal; a sharp one,
new to the point and unused
you are the 64-box of Crayola’s
using all the colors of you to
flesh out the person that is me
the picture that became us
showing all the restraint of a
four-year old for boundaries
the flair of Matisse for nuance
you have always boldly, blithely
refused to color inside the lines
and I like that way.
Ponderable polemics, poetic 