I am at her window writing
Her terracotta legs down
Pottering in the garden square
Plugged into the air around her
A swallow measuring tailwinds
The yellow cotton dress billowing
On the lingering zephyr, I linger
Watching the floral pattern drizzle
The skyblue flowers rain on her knees
An ovation by an audience of one
She slips through the window
Like the ghost of a young deer
She has a bunch of grapes on the vine
And she coyly throws one green bulbs
It hits me and lands deep in my centre
While dried to a raisin it remains there
Waiting to be chewed and remembered
