If I were a painter,
I'd paint you the hundreds
of marigold leaves
hanging on the branches
of our one-lane street.

I'd color the canvas
with the image of myself
blowing air on the flames
of our Sunday-night fire,
watching it dance to life.

If I were able to
mix the oils just right,
I could shine a flashlight
through the fence to find
the deer as it rustled in the bushes.

If I had the finest Parisian brushes,
I'd seal our memories forever,
hanging them in rustic frames
on the walls of our home
where they could be

remembered daily
rather than just
once-in-a-while
when the campfire smoke
finally jogs our memory.