Ginger-Lily

Evenings like these – the skyline
a seam of abalone strewn
across the horizon...late blossom
pixilating the traceries of trees.
Our old room bathed in quiet light
where we'd sit at close of day.

Can picture her now – running
the bath – the dressing-table mirror
misted with steam, where she'd write
our names.  And her, testing the water
with her toe; a votive burning on the sill,
and through an open window – hear
the stars sing.