A ten-finger bundle of oregano,
freshly harvested, tied in coarse twine,
hangs from a drying ring,
just below the wind chimes.
Unusually strong winds for such a hot day,
tousle the bushy-head lavender.
That scent is Sara,
in starched white smock
and little else,
visible until she descends
down the overlook.
I run to follow her,
slowed by the stuck porch door,
to finally gaze at her from the ridge,
for a while, unobserved,
she dances about the calypso orchids.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
