I like to imagine 
she smiled, even laughed, 
her folly, rolling, the gentle hill,
shoulder o’er shoulder to rest 
where azalea meets lawn, face-up, 
the warm sun.

A bird sings,
pretty pretty pretty

The voice 
of the wind,
alluring, contralto.

Light brushes
on the canopy,
like cymbals,
keep time.

A damsel and a dragon-
fly flit away, stutter-step, near-
collision mid-air.

She unfolds,
blossom and pulse,
at the center, the source:

The aroma of grass
newly mown, pink buds open
against the blue.

And the clouds.

cc: Chagall 2025