Stop.
The color of roses that never got delivered. Of loaded dice in a smoke-filled bar. A balloon that catches on a tree, freezing its young wearer in wonder. Districts of red dressed women for sale and the stale smell of glory just out of reach.
Wait.
The paint of a sunset scene begging for kisses and waiting for soldiers who never returned. Smiles on a postcard from nieces and nephews. The glow of a buttercup lit by the moon. And people who wander and follow the sun, venturing nearer than far.
Go.
To the forests of berries and fruit, the evergreens hidings the secret of time. And eyes that sing melodies of sea glass and copper. Ribbons that weave through the trees up ahead, through the distance, forward, away.
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