Seen From a Window

Her footsteps fall –
soft as a bird’s
skitter on the sands;

the subtle slope
of her shoulders –
speaks to me of pagodas,

and her face
a rosebud –
fresh sprung;
opening to the sun.

Those eyes, the greenest
of things blue, almost
meet mine, almost
every time...

and I breathe deep;
half in disappointment –
half in reluctant relief.

Whether she be good
or bad...a princess, or
a pauper – a matter
for conjecture...

It seems she wafts
with the wind,
and like the wind,
I know not
where she’s from,
nor where she goes.

Would I were a leaf
on the tree, opposite
my window, for then
I’d fall at her feet...
and tag along.