Late spring when we first saw the house,
with its back door a cave obscured
behind those breaking waves of blue
and white surge-foam of sweet blossom.

Bees, pollen and petals made it
difficult to weave a way in;
and in the drench of sun-showers
the water-falls of flowers purled.

Summer slowed the fall to trickles.
And since you’ve missed most of autumn,
let me say the wisteria
now is mostly air and grey cloud.

The few curved spatulas of pods
rattle like the wood-slat clackers
of a ghost-dispersing wind chime,
high against Himalayan grey.

It’s risky so high, so shaky, so vulnerable.
He peeks over the edge at the people like ants.
Suits and cell phones, all black and business.
Each with a mission in their click-clack heels.
“Back to business, Boy,” grunts Boss, chewing on a soggy cigarette.
Boy wonders if the click-clackers ever mistake cigarette spit for rain

His reflection is transparent but he can still make out
the scar above his eye and the stubble of sleepy dawns
when he stretches and drinks black coffee early with the sun.
Through the reflection the black business arrives.
The magic elevator transforms all ants into stock-market men
and credit-card women who close the curtains.

He wonders how he ended up on the outside,
towering the city with a dripping squeegee,
pulling it over black, lifeless curtains, opaque to the morning sun.
But Boss is busy now with a fresh cigarette
so he turns back around and remembers why he towers
as the magic sun transforms the magic stars
into meshing morning colors, high enough to meet his eye.