You know those matchless moments
You want to keep forever?
The times you have her hand
And never will let go of her?
The torn quilt is beneath us,
The sun is sinking overhead,
As we lay on the spring damp ground
Watching the sky light up in red.
But red is not the only color,
For the sky knows it is not her favorite hue.
It blazes purple, pink, and orange,
Then at the edge a darkening blue.
Her fingers are entwined with mine,
Slender and soft in the wet green grass.
And then there is the rigid hoop of gold
That reminds me of when I asked.