He'd sit and hear her music from the window
and smell the autumn in the air. The poor
sound of the bees on flowers, the yellow color
of the blossoms. The water oak tree's shadow
sinks in the dark mud, the mosquitoes even know
the music of this land. The flat-green floor
of the pasture stretches out, I open a door
to the moisture and sing a set of words I borrow
from another poet. From right here, the view
of the canals begins to turn purple, the doom
of unreachable paradise sets. A blood-red dew
punctuates the surreal horizon, gray fog from
the night melts off. He'd dreamt she was a few
small flowers that had just begun to bloom.
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