Sunday

Dot, why did you write these words?
 They are your words, George.
 The ones you muttered so often when you worked.
 Order.
 Design.
 Tension.
 Composition.
 Balance.
 Light.
 Dot, I cannot read this word.
 Harmony.
 Sunday, by the blue purple yellow red water / So much love in his words
 Forever with his colors. / On the green purple yellow red grass
 How George looks. / As we pass through arrangements of shadows / He can look forever.
 What does he see?
 His eyes, so dark and shiny / Towards the verticals of trees/ So careful, so exact
 Forever
 By the blue purple yellow red water
 On the green orange violet mass of the grass
 In our perfect park
 Made of flecks of light
 And dark
 And parasols
 People strolling through the trees
 Of a small suburban park
 On an island in the river
 On an ordinary Sunday
 Sunday
 Sunday
 White. A blank page or canvas.
 His favorite.
 So many possibilities.