Thursday, March 4, 2010


You drift to me on the taunting wind
Like distant strains of a mandolin
Or the comforting chatters of a brook
Vaguely recalled from a winter nook

You graze the surface of my skin
Like the soundless breath of a butterfly’s wing
The ghost of a smile in the pale moonlight
Flickers and fades beyond my sight

The brush of your finger-tips, a restless sigh
That escapes from my lips as you pass by
And all that remains for me to see
Is the wind as it tosses the willow-tree

All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin

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