Purification Three, Wind

She sang of flowers in their fitful slumber
And of their hues, as if she were the air
Upon each petal’s waving endless number;
Then perched herself upon her wicker chair.
She waved a summer fan, its light wind hit
My face and neck; and all my thoughts were fixed
On eyes and lips – so ready to submit
To flying words and nature intermixed.
To be that which she spoke about, I thought,
Would bring that happy wind within her words
To me each day – now ready to be taught
And eavesdrop on the clever sounds of birds.
And walking home that dawn along a trail,
I thought of her and heard her in the dale.