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You move with me

like wind through the tops of pines.

It is autumn, and the needles are dry.

These are your colors being flown..

You didn't know that this sky

gave your eyes their gray.

I did, three

years

ago

while you gathered leaves.

I kept one until its brilliance faded

and it crumbled on the shelf.

But you delighted in how the snow

stacked up along the limbs

and when spring came,

you brought me flowers.