A branch, tapping
on the window, wakes me.
I watch her half-smile
in her sleep, as if cradling
the child within, in her arms;
strands of her hair, soft
drift into shards of sunlight –
pierce the blinds; outside, each
blade of grass, hangs heavy –
a teardrop at its tip. Her skin,
moist and cool, with the heady
scent of night-blooming jasmine.
Dreams of her – still vivid
in my mind, as an artist dreams
of a palette filled with uncharted
colours, and so shall I dream
until she becomes my final
adumbration, when the sky shifts –
a chiaroscuro of blacks and greys...
the sunset, sweet and golden
like a buttermilk pancake kiss...
as I surrender to her
as a willow in full leaf, bends
to a passing breeze.