she sneaks in through our open window,
barefoot on the starlit floor,
quiet in mild summer wind,
like whispered secrets of a child
and dew drops on fresh grass at dawn.
she paints our whitewashed wall
with fleur-de-lys and window grills
in clear shadow, then wanders
through the resting home,
humming like sweet springtime rain;
when she traced grey names of every book
with pale and gentle fingertips,
they glittered fresh in crystal frost,
as if winter lost her way again tonight.
she peeks into each mirror-
now braiding a dream into her hair,
now fixing a star on her shoulder-
then hides tiny clouds of spare laughter
on the ceiling, behind the couch,
in between coffee and breakfast time,
and silent afternoons.
she climbs onto the windowsill,
her wistful smile lit softly
in waking twilight, she steps
onto a purple breeze
and floats into another perfect night.
T. E. Pyrus