The Tablecloth
Dyed the hues of harvest
the rich cloth caught my hand
while we shopped the Rue de Cler.
Plum wine and violet,
oranges, burnt to umber,
for years we shared a feast of gifts.
Ripened yellow lemons
and green of lime and grass,
raw but truthful words.
Companions with bread
we would sit at the table
graced with this reminder –
once friends in Paris.
buffaloed 
So lovely and moving… I can see and feel the experience going on between friends. The memory lingers… I can feel that too. Nice writing.
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