paint you the sky,
   in gold
with pinkish-oranges
     and lampblack
contrasts

purplish coils
   and burning reds
holding your hand
      in the glow

of your terra cotta
     lamp
I promised
    that under

the blush
     of light blue
never knowing
     if I could ever

fulfill it.
    So this is
a canvas I
    painted, my dear.

Remembering
    how calm that
September horizon
    felt

touch it if
    you must, but it
is not finished
     yet, it is wet

not the masterpiece
    I promised you
then,