There are things she 
 can't remember: 
 the bills, the demitasse of 
 strong black coffee growing 
 cold on a carved drop leaf stand.  
 But in early mornings
 late in another summer, 
 she remembers his
 face like a fine portrait, 
 she remembers his love. 
 She lets it in like daylight 
 through a 
 vertical blind.  
 Winters and summers 
 and winters again have 
 poured into her room, linear 
 blocks of light. 
 Winters and summers and
 winters again have died. 
 She can feel him still, the 
 cup of his hands on her skin.
 His arms around her, homed 
 to her waist, a perch in waiting.
 She can hear the sounds of summer 
 collapsed into the sea beneath 
 the beauty of the sun.
 Her smile, he knew.
 And it returns like none before 
 or after.  It catches, as quick 
 as a breath, alive as a hummingbird 
 against a windowglass.
 Through the wooden blinds
 a film of air, 
 translucent as it is, throws 
 light against a thousand tiny drops 
 of dust, floating in the sitting room.  
 She reaches 
 to the thin louver dowel to 
 turn the slats, and it is gone. 
 Winters and summers and winters 
 again, have died.  
 Winters and summers 
 and winters again are born.

20 aug 01
M Madison