I told him I loved yellow roses
and dandelions.
we danced across the campus like lovers;
I talked, he didn't.
He didn't need to.
Interwoven fingers, high hopes, and
the pages of my sketchbook mixed with tears,
stained with charcoal. The same expression used by primitive men
in the caves of the world.
Lacking words, but speaking wonders. I asked him
to say what he meant, and I saw it in his eyes. He was
never able to recite lectures about love but he knew,
because he remembered the yellow roses; and the beauty
of the weeds.