Solveig's Song

I glimpse her at the sink
washing plates and dishes;
through an open window

wafts a melody by Grieg.
So pure, so clear;
tears stand in my eyes

amazed by the clarity
the pitch, the tone
as her voice floats

to the ring of crystal
rinsed in winter water.
I loose her apron strings...

pull her close –
breathe through her hair –
detect a hint of patchouli;

taste her lips – a trace
of brandy; the kind lingers
long like honey on your tongue.

Then he comes home –
closes the blinds – puts on
the TV.

I retreat to my small corner,
humming to myself;
slightly off-key.