Poem 2: Every Fourth, Last, Now

Red is every fourth letter,
and the leaves on that fiery tree
across the street. Red is M,
red is A, which you pronounce E
and say it's for your name
which begins with the sound of I.
Red was your last color, and still
you say it slowly, quietly,
without the final D.
That hat we loved was red.
That color, in finger paint,
on your cheek. Apple, strawberry.
Purple was more fun to say.
Yellow, too. But fire trucks
and roses and that little bracelet
you pushed over my fingers
and onto my wrist and smiled:
red, all red, say it with me
now.