by Stephen Paden
Bold become colors through dirty windows,
bending and twisting in the sun.
Bold become sounds that break through glass,
never once creating a shard.
Bold become birds that rest upon branches,
as the dogs of the year start to run.
Bold become lovers who meet in the park,
a love so easy, yet so hard.
Bold are the restless that find their peace.
Bold are the ones who win without war.
Bold are the lovers whom love always seeks.
Bold are the colors on love’s painted door.