Through openwork,
warmth a shape,
sunshines stretch
down stairs, catch
dust suspended
in the air, and through
the leaves of trees
through windows
bring the open air interior.

Come evening
she thinks of me, waits
moth-like in porch light.

See her
brush the air
inexpertly—a breeze
that lifts my hair
carries her
past the tops of trees,
past any future
I can read,
where only those
who steer by the moon
alone can go.