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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.

jazz, funk