The late April breeze is talkative at night,
while on her draft,
she carries the echo of sweetened thunder
through the leaves of a
lonely tree
beside a glowing window.
She smells of heaven's tears
and budding blossoms.
Tomorrow, with the waking sun,
she'll offer dew drops
as her parting gifts,
as she slips her heels across the window sill
and under the wings of a
fledgling swallow,
caressing and commencing his couthie concert
while the sun rubs the sleep
from his eyes.
She'll leave in the silence of
dawn's first few moments,
self conscious of any gaze
and careful not to stir
one precious petal.
Pondering why she thinks herself
so sly, I will feign sleep
with one eye locked on the
golden locks disappearing over the window sill.