...in an olive

There were little colored pebbles
   on the path beneath our feet;
   small, tightly curled leaves.
The hills that held the morning
   seemed ancient as the sun
   and philosophy the spine of the world.

I was thrilled with dancing atoms
   and you with shaping states.
I cut and spun and stabbed the air
   with short dark stubby fingers.
You swirled and stroked and molded it
   with slender artist's hands.
I spoke of visions.
You sang about the dreamer
   being more important than the dream.
When I began to analyze,
   you laughed
   and stuffed an olive in my mouth.
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