Does the wind blow the same color
on your side of life?
Perhaps Eastcoast dialect carries an undercurrent
I just don’t get.
What’s truth for me
may mean naught to you.
Your trees turn brilliant leaves in Fall
while my catus flowers softly white and peach
both fit for the eye delicious
whatever the climate.
Stand before these bright eyes green
and tell me again what you said before
and let me watch yours.